


Of Ice and Constellations

by emelianss



Series: Winter Magic [4]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prince!Jean, Secret Relationship, Witch!Marco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-02-05 05:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12787881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emelianss/pseuds/emelianss
Summary: A year ago Jean swore to himself he'd somehow make a life together with Marco; now it's almost within reach, so close he can sense its warmth.But when tragedy hits the noble family of Trost, those possibilities are snatched from his fingers. Instead he's left a role to fill that was never meant to be his, and with it come choices that will not only change the future for him and Marco, but for Trost too — and beyond their walls, the rest of the kingdom.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time coming, and here we are! This fic will be the longest in the series; probably around 10-11 chapters. Chapter 1-4 are all as good as done, and I will post one every two weeks from now until January. Hopefully more chapters will be ready by then :')
> 
> (EDIT: Because of Christmas stress and long work shifts I decided to wait with the next chapter until January when I can focus on getting them done on a schedule!)
> 
> The fic will be spanning many years with more angst than the earlier parts, starting right away (but I promise a happy ending!;)). Like before the focus is on the boys and their time together, while the rest stays in the background. I hope you guys will enjoy it, and if you do, please tell me so! I don't know how many (or few) are still interested in reading this, but I want to tell the story to its end. So if you're here for the ride, your words will mean so much to me! <3
> 
> My [tumblr](http://emelianss.tumblr.com) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/emelianss).

The walls of Trost rose high above the ground, black and icy in the winter wind. Marco shivered in his cloak, burrowed deeper and hugged himself tight, while mumbling ancient words to keep the cold from drilling his very bones.

It was two years since he last was here. He shouldn’t be now either, but the bad feeling nagging at the back of his mind was insistent. After three days he’d had no choice but to follow it. Something was wrong, and the churning worry in his stomach only increased the closer to Trost he came. Now, standing in the shadow of the city’s looming presence, he felt a chill rush through him that had nothing to do with the weather.

Dark had fallen. The inner wall around the castle was no doubt already locked and closed for the night. Marco still walked up there to make sure there was nothing he could do at the moment; he stared up at it for a while, mind chasing years of memories so distant they seemed to belong in a different life.

He let his eyes fall and left to find the closest inn to spend the hours until morning. But sleep was far away and only touched him briefly, the shield of worry too strong to let any rest seep through.

It was still dark when he stirred awake from a light slumber, but a subconscious part of him still knew it was time. Already dressed, Marco grabbed for his cloak and hurried outside, determined to catch the gate as soon as it opened — or at least as soon as possible without drawing too much attention to himself. He knew magic that’d help him slip past unnoticed, but he wasn’t sure it would work if too many eyes were already on him. Healing was his speciality after all; he couldn’t master everything.

Leaving the warmth of the inn, Marco found an uncomfortable tension hovering over the street ahead. A murmur of voices came from the direction of the gate, which was strange, for it shouldn’t be open already and the people up and about had work to do and prepare for the day. What were they doing by the castle wall?

Other doors opened as he passed, curious people glancing outside in the direction he was going. The unease only grew stronger the closer he came to the voices, the eerie atmosphere made worse by the dancing shadows cast by the sharp torchlight on the wall.

He had just reached the gathered small crowd when the bells chimed in alarm. It sent a rattled shiver through the people already outside and no doubt woke those who still slept. Guards broke through, telling people to back off; as his gaze searched for where they’d come from, Marco found the gates already open — and about to be closed again. Quickly muttering the words and focusing his energy, Marco broke away from the crowd and hurried forward, slipping inside between the closing doors while the guards’ attention shifted away from him to something else.

But the rush of relief for how easy it had been was short-lived. Once inside, he almost stumbled over something on the ground; stepping back, his eyes fell on a splatter of red in the white snow, growing thicker the closer it came to the lifeless shape lying there.

A person.

More than one.

The upset voices from outside faded into a wordless murmur, a background noise calling for attention but failing to gain it. Marco stared at the dead guard closest to him, then the next one, mind struggling to take in what he was seeing. Their chests were ripped open, some possibly by blades but others… The wounds resembled scratch marks, but much larger and deeper than any animal Marco knew. His stomach turned, breath catching in his throat.

Then the scream finally broke through the blocks around his ears. Marco turned in time to see how hands pointed towards the top of the wall, right above the front gates before they closed. He squinted against the bright lanterns breaking through the dark; the light curved around the still shape placed there, ominous energy dripping from it like poison. Confusion came first, but too soon it was replaced by unwanted understanding.

He ran fast, heart beating at a frenetic speed in his chest.

Inside the castle’s corridors, Marco slipped into the shadows to hide away while alerting his senses to search for Jean’s presence. It didn’t take him long, but the energy was dim and scattered, like only ghosts of Jean remained in the rooms. Marco managed to find the way to the chambers Levi had taken him to so long ago, but his already wavering doubt in his senses only grew the closer he came. The noise and life of guards and running servants ceased, and the corridor outside Jean’s rooms was silent. No guards stood waiting by the door, and no one answered when he knocked on it. The only thing he sensed from inside was darkness. Fear spiked his chest, gnawing into already bleeding wounds.

Never having been in here alone before and his magic now seemingly useless, Marco had no chance of knowing where to find Jean. He stared back towards the direction he had come, not sure if he would be able to find his way back outside. He hadn’t paid enough attention, only used what little he could sense to guide him here. Forcing his breathing to calm down, he held his arms crossed over his chest, fingers gripping tight of the folds of his clothes to stop them from shaking. He didn’t know what to do.

Approaching footsteps woke him from his worried thoughts, and he hurried away into another empty corridor. The echo of the quick steps faltered outside Jean’s door; when Marco glanced around the corner he found three cloak-dressed figures murmuring to each other as they went inside. They were nuns or monks, but Marco wasn’t sure to which of the many deities they belonged. In either case, it wasn’t safe for him to go back as long as they were there — and unless it was drowned by the festering evil looming in there, Jean’s presence wasn’t close anyway, as far as Marco could tell.

Frowning and sighing to himself, Marco considered whether he should stay and watch the door or try to find Jean elsewhere. He moved slowly, gaze shifting over the gorgeous paintings and tapestries covering the walls. Every part he’d seen of the castle was beautiful, and the riches this one corridor held were enough to buy his family food that’d last for months. Still, their enormous collection of treasures hadn’t protected them against _this_. Marco swallowed, deciding he had to move and try somewhere else.

It was a maze. How was anyone able to live in a place this big and confusing? How long did it take for a new servant to learn their way around? Marco felt small and lonely, the worry only made worse by this large, unfamiliar place.

The image of the guard’s white, lifeless eyes came back at times, staring at him from the dark. Marco had seen more dead people than he wanted to remember, many of them starved, sick children who eventually lost the battle against the disease festering inside them. But what shook him so about this stranger was the surprise on their face; death had hit them suddenly, cut into them and spread their blood like macabre rain over the snow.

For what reason? To get in? Get out? The anxious knot in Marco’s throat grew, making it harder to breathe for each new minute passing with no trace of Jean’s presence. His mind returned to the shape on the wall, what his extra sense told him that it was, and his hands trembled. Had the killer succeeded with what they came to do?

Then, a new faint whisper called for his mind, reaching out to grip his attention. It was Jean again, still only a small piece, but it pulsated. Stronger than before. Bewildered and worried about what was causing this strangeness, Marco hurried on, praying it wouldn’t fade like earlier.

The sound of new footsteps forced him to hide again, this time behind an armoured statue. But the lone guard that hurried past was familiar.

‘Petra!’ he hissed; the sound of his voice made the guard spin around on the spot, and her eyes were wide as Marco came out of the shadows, her lips forming his name without a sound. A hand reached for the sword at her hip. ‘Where’s Jean?’

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, stepping back from his approaching form. ‘How did you get inside?’

‘Too easily,’ Marco admitted, glancing around to make sure they were alone. ‘The protection must get better, the castle stands no chance against threats using magic.’ But they already knew, and it wasn’t this his mind screamed about right then. ‘Where is Jean?’ he repeated, voice pleading. ‘Is he all right? Please…’

Petra eyed him, suspicion clear in her whole being. Her hand still rested on the hilt of her sword, but she hadn’t drawn it. ‘You shouldn’t be in here.’

‘I know, but I have to see him. I have to—’

‘No. I can’t tell if you are the real Marco or not. You need to understand that. If you wish him no harm, you will leave without fuss.’

‘Petra, please—’

But the guard held out her arm with firm determination; Marco reeled back from the burning air around her hand before he even noticed the dark metal she held in a thin chain around her knuckles, her eyes as strong and unbending as her pose. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Marco, but I can’t risk Jean’s safety.’

Marco took another step away, his skin itching and crawling just by being close to it. Faebane, they called it. A special kind of iron no one with magic in their veins could bear to be close to without hurting. One time his father had been commissioned to make a set of daggers of that metal, and they’d been lucky the man ordering them didn’t notice when Marco let go with shaking fingers, his face pale. That short burn had taken a week to heal, his own gifts useless against it.

Marco watched it now, steeling himself before reaching out and closing his fingers around the medallion. The reaction was instant; his skin tore where it touched it, hand trembling with the urge to let go and back away as far as he could. But he clenched his jaw and held firm.

Petra’s eyes widened. ‘What are you doing?’

‘If I used someone else’s face,’ Marco managed to say, ‘I wouldn’t be able to keep it up while holding this.’

‘Marco, please. I can’t risk it. Jean’s safe here; let us do our job—’

Marco shook his head. His elbow trembled, every vein screaming for him to let go. He forced himself to meet Petra’s stare. ‘If what I saw on the wall is what I think it is, we both know he isn’t safe in here at all.’

Petra blinked, her eyes blank. ‘If you’re found, you’ll be arrested,’ she insisted, tugging at the chain to make Marco let go. When he finally did, the skin hissed, and he cradled his shaking hand with the good one to his chest, leaning back against the wall for support. Petra’s face gave away her concern, but she still wouldn’t give in. ‘Please, think of how Jean would feel if you are. Don’t risk him losing you too.’

Marco knew this was foolish. He knew the risks he was taking by coming here were enormous, and that Jean wouldn’t let him if he was asked beforehand. But his mind repeated the sight on the wall, now filling in the details he’d refused to acknowledge before. The black blood matted in hair and on skin, frozen in the cold the way the terror had reflected on the face the moment death had been thrust upon the person the head once belonged to.

Marco shivered, blinking away the image and met Petra’s eyes. ‘If I wished him harm, I would find my own way to him,’ he whispered. He tried not to think about how true that might be for someone else, right in this moment. ‘As will others. Only magic can protect against magic — _please_ let me protect him. I saw the dead guards, Petra. And if they were able to get…’ He swallowed, not sure what word to use. Him? _It?_ ‘They’d been on the wall,’ he said instead. ‘That means they’re inside—’

Petra’s face was grim. ‘Not only the wall.’

Marco’s heart jolted, the fear vibrating through his veins with each beat.

Petra took a deep breath, scolding her emotions back behind hidden walls. ‘They brought... two more. One to the balcony outside the duchess’s chambers, the other outside Jean’s…’ She hesitated for a moment, but looking at Marco’s still trembling hand, she sighed. ‘That’s why he isn’t there. He was taken deeper inside the castle so we can easier protect him. The chamber is very old, with magic built into the walls. It should keep him hidden, even from witches.’

Marco was silent for a moment, his mouth dry. He didn’t want to put the pieces together, didn’t want it to be true. ‘Did Jean… see?’ he asked finally, his stomach churning at the thought, his heart aching to protect Jean from all of this.

Petra nodded with solemn eyes before letting out a shivering breath. ‘They must have been attacked on their way back home. It’s being said that it was the Rebels, that this was made as a threat…’

‘The Rebels wouldn’t do this. They have no reason to—’

‘It doesn’t matter, Marco. This is why you can’t be in here. Dark magic oozes from the spikes; you’d be accused simply by being in Trost. If I take you to Jean…’

She didn’t have to finish for him to understand, but Marco couldn’t step back from this. The thought of that darkness he sensed from Jean’s chambers now made sense, and it only fuelled his need to be close to him. ‘He’s told me the duchess’s views have changed,’ Marco insisted, grasping at anything to make Petra change her mind.

‘Lady Kirschtein has just lost her husband and two oldest sons to dark witchcraft,’ the guard said. ‘If you think she’ll accept you today, you have more faith in her than I have.’

The next moment, the sound of another pair of footsteps reached their ears. ‘Petra!’ the voice called, drawing Petra’s attention away from Marco and in the direction she had been going. The other guard came within sight before Marco had time to back away, but this man was familiar as well. Auruo didn’t look at Marco before he focused on Petra, sighing dramatically. ‘You have to come. I have no damn idea how to deal with him and it’s driving me insane watching him stare at the wall like—’

‘Is Jean hurt?’ Marco blurted out.

Auruo’s eyes zeroed in on Marco still hunched against the wall and cradling his hand, frown deepening. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asked, not even bothering to question what Marco was doing there in the first place. Maybe he understood.

Petra replied before Marco had a chance to more than open his mouth. ‘He held faebane to prove that it’s him.’

‘Let’s pray it’s him then because we can use his help in there.’ Auruo grabbed for Marco’s arm and tugged him away from the wall, before leading the way back to where he had come from.

‘Is Jean hurt?’ Marco repeated, hurrying along with the older man’s quick steps. Petra trailed behind them, giving Auruo irritated looks that he either ignored or didn’t notice. But she didn’t say anything, so Marco guessed she had already decided to take him to Jean herself if he still insisted. Otherwise she wouldn’t let Auruo do so now.

‘Can you heal shock and grief?’ Auruo asked, voice dry but still with a hint of hidden concern behind it.

Marco hesitated, knowing full well the answer to that. ‘I can try,’ he said instead.

Jean sat still on the edge of the bed in the small room, his face frozen in an empty stare, pale as snow. Fingers dug into his arms, tense and cold when Marco stumbled to his knees before him, reaching for them.

‘Jean,’ he whispered; Jean started at the sound of Marco’s voice, eyes blinking, searching. Hands trembled as they gripped for Marco’s, squeezing hard.

Quickly searching Jean over, Marco noticed the marks his nails had left in the skin of his arms, but except for that, he didn’t seem to have any physical injuries. Marco wanted to sigh in relief, but Jean’s eyes caught the air in his throat. They were still dry, no sign of tears either shed or not. But they were also sunken, staring and confused, grasping at sense when there was none to be found.

‘Marco?’ he sounded. ‘Why… why are you here?’ His searching eyes found Marco’s injured palm, eyebrows furrowing in concern. ‘What happened?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ Marco swallowed around the knot in his throat. ‘I—I sensed something was wrong,’ he forced out in a weak voice, stroking his well hand over Jean’s pale cheek. ‘Jean… I’m… I’m so, so sorry…’

Jean’s eyes fell, staring at Marco’s shoulder without seeing it. The silence was heavy, stretched long before it was broken by a deep, shivering sigh from Jean. His expression didn’t change, but his fingers gripped tight around Marco’s.

‘They are dead,’ he said, voice as empty as his face, and Marco wondered if he understood what he was saying himself. Loss was always hard to grasp even when it had been a long time coming; sudden and sharp like this must be unbearable. Marco wasn’t sure what to say, so he remained silent, squeezing as much warmth as he could back into Jean’s cold hands. ‘Killed… just _gone_. I… I don’t…’ Jean opened and closed his mouth but no more words came out. He looked so lost, so confused and unbelieving of his own words.

Tears burned in Marco’s eyes, but he forced them back; he had no right to cry over this. Not when Jean hadn’t done so yet. Instead he moved to sit beside him on the bed, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. Jean let himself be pulled into Marco’s embrace, his own hands buried in the folds of Marco’s cloak, and face pressed to his shoulder.

Marco glanced back at Auruo and Petra by the door; Auruo turned to leave. ‘I’ll let her ladyship know you’re here,’ he said, unaware of the lightning bolt of sudden fear his words sent down Marco’s spine. ‘It is better she knows beforehand than finding you here without being informed.’ He stopped, his posture shifting a little at the sight of Marco’s eyes; Petra too looked uncertain, gaze moving between them but doing nothing else to stop him. ‘You must have been aware of that when you came here,’ Auruo continued. ‘Unless you mean to leave instantly, there is no way for you to avoid her knowing.’

Marco didn’t reply. He turned back to Jean, who met his uncertain eyes with a steady gaze. ‘She won’t harm you,’ he said, no doubt lingering in his voice. At least this was something he understood, a truth he knew and had somewhat control over. ‘I won’t let her.’

Marco nodded slowly, turning to Petra again. ‘Will you tell her what I said?’ he asked. ‘About magic.’ Petra’s confused expression stayed only for a moment, and she nodded before they both left. Lady Kirschtein might not listen to this kind of reason, but he still wanted her to know he only wished to help protect Jean. And they needed it; that at least she must understand.

Silence fell heavy over the room. Jean’s expression was distant again, and he barely reacted at all to Marco’s hand on his cheek. Marco didn’t know what to say, so he kept brushing his thumb over Jean’s skin in silence.

‘How... how do you grasp it?’ Jean asked finally, lips twisting in wavering uncertainty around the words. He sounded so small, so helpless, and his eyes begged for an explanation when they met Marco’s again. ‘Am I supposed to feel it?’

‘Jean, you’re still in shock. You…’ Marco cut himself off, unable to tell him just how much it would hurt once shock gave way for the impact of realisation. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked instead. ‘Or do you want to talk about something else for now?’

Jean remained silent for a while, staring at nothing again. Then he shook himself, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘I woke up and everything seemed normal,’ he said, voice low, not much more than a whisper. ‘It was early but… It’s hard to tell when it’s dark. I decided to start the day.’ He paused, fingers biting into Marco’s hand. ‘I was just lazing around in there for several minutes, thinking everything was as it should while… while he…’ He bit down hard into his lip, breath shaking in his nose, eyes blinking, staring. ‘It can’t… it can’t have been him, Marco. It wasn’t him. It was… I— don’t know, but it wasn’t Erick—’

Marco stared down at their hands, searching for words of comfort he knew didn’t exist. Nothing he said would undo this. Nothing would make it better.

Jean inhaled sharply, the tears audible in his voice even though they hadn’t left his eyes yet. ‘This is nothing but a terrible nightmare,’ he said, the pleading in his small voice breaking Marco’s heart. ‘I’m going to wake up. Everything’s fine, they’re almost home. Any day now.’ His breath shivered. ‘Right? Right, Marco? P-please…’

Before Marco knew what to say, the door opened; the guards returned, followed by Lady Kirschtein. She halted when she came inside, eyes finding Marco with brief disapproval before fixating on her son. Her expression changed then, flickering, shaking, and Marco realised they hadn’t seen each other since this terrible morning had started.

A tremble vibrated in Jean’s arm as he rose and left Marco’s side, slowly taking the steps up to her. There was a short moment of hesitation from them both, but then the duchess wrapped her arms tightly around her son’s back, pulling him into her embrace with a desperation unfamiliar to her character. Jean trembled in her grip, bending his neck to press his face into her shoulder. She rested her chin on his in turn, eyes staring upwards at nothing as silent tears broke loose and trailed down her pale cheeks. One hand came up to sooth through his hair, the other rubbed his shoulder blades.

Marco looked away from them, instead staring at the floor. He’d only met Lady Kirschtein once before, when she cursed and forbade him to see Jean again; now he saw the cracks in her mask she’d kept hidden then, the emotions raw as they seeped through. His feelings towards her were complicated, but this wasn’t a moment for that. No parent should have to lose their child; she had lost two, now holding the only one left so close, her heart bleeding. They deserved privacy.

‘We must be strong now, Jean,’ she finally said as she stepped back, voice quivering but still determined as her eyes caught Jean’s. ‘The grief must stay within guarded walls, only with people sure to be trusted with it.’

She glanced at Marco, but it was too brief for him to tell if it was in acceptance or rejection. Still, she didn’t send him out, but returned her focus to Jean, cradling his chin in her hands. He stared at nothing between them, not showing any sign of actually hearing what she was saying.

‘We cannot let them see us weak. We must gain their trust and respect, and not give them reason to doubt our lead…’

Jean blinked then, expression slowly creasing into a frown as he looked up at his mother again. ‘What?’

Lady Kirschtein straightened her posture, chin held high as to keep hold of her influence over him despite him being taller. Despite the position he now had gained. Marco’s heart sank. ‘You must take your place beside me now—’

Jean’s eyes widened and he stepped back from her, shaking his head. ‘No…’

‘—and prove to the Council and the people that you’re right to lead with me in their stead.’

‘No. No-no, no, I won’t…. I _can’t_ _—_ ’

‘You’re next in line, Jean,’ Lady Kirschtein insisted, her face a battlefield between emotions and responsibility. ‘It’s a duty that came with your birth.’

Her hands still reached for him, but Jean had backed too far away for her to hold him anymore. ‘ _No_ , I’m the _third_ ,’ he said, voice shaking. ‘a-and Alden has heirs; they’re both before me now—’

‘I cannot lead with a child beside me,’ Lady Kirschtein said, dropping her hands, the responsibility winning. Their moment of closeness and consolation had been shattered by what had to be done, and Marco saw in her closing expression that she knew he wouldn’t let her in again, not for a long time. ‘You must rule in their place until they’re old enough for the responsibility.’

Jean was shaking his head in panic, hands tearing at his hair. ‘I can’t do it, please don’t... you can’t make me do this… you _promised_ _—_ ’

Cold, golden eyes met Marco’s then, her pain laid bare in such a raw, naked way he froze in place finding it directed at him like this. She asked something of him, no words uttered, only a silent understanding expressed between them. Marco had never expected this, but his surprise had to wait. Given the approval to interfere, he stepped forward and as Jean backed into him, he wrapped his arms around Jean’s waist. Tears were streaming down Jean’s cheeks now, sobs broken around small words of denial as the realisation of what had happened finally hit in full force. Marco did his best to hold him grounded with his own presence and touch; when Jean’s legs lost their strength, he kept him on his feet long enough to get him back to the bed.

No one said anything more before they left; when Marco glanced towards the door, the duchess was already gone. Petra and Auruo lingered, but their faces reflected the same discomfort Marco had felt watching something so private. It didn’t take long before they left as well, Petra nodding silently towards the door to let Marco know they’d be outside.

He gave a short nod in reply, but his focus was already back at Jean. His arms held tight around Jean’s shaking form, whispering words of comfort he knew had lost their meaning in a situation such as this. Jean clung to him in return, hands grasped in his clothes with desperation, his half-muffled sobs echoing between the cold walls of the small room.

* * *

Growing up, Jean was used to getting away from expectations. He was the youngest with seven and nine years between himself and his older brothers, and his playful childhood lasted much longer than theirs had. They were both drafted for future duties from early on, and when someone needed to show their good name to nobility and the city, they were eager to do so. It made it almost too easy for Jean to run away, hiding in the kitchen with the chef’s children or among the kittens playing around the horses in the stables.

His parents hadn’t minded much, really. Not as long as they still considered him young enough. The duke scolded at times, glaring down at Jean’s dirty clothes after he’d been discovered some place his rank made it unfit for him to be. But it always ended in a wry smile, and a hand rustling through Jean’s hair. The duchess had never been the kind of woman to fuss over her children, but any closeness came much easier for her back when he was small. He was her baby, with her appearance and personality mirrored back at her with only slight changes. The one of her sons with the most of visible traits of the Kirschtein line in his veins. Jean never understood what that meant, especially not since he saw no similarities between himself and his maternal grandfather, the previous lord who had stepped aside for his daughter and her husband once they were wed. He was a grim man until his death, and the only one who didn’t seem the slightest amused by Jean’s attitude.

Alden and Erick were at times annoyed at Jean for being so troublesome, but for most part they were also the ones easiest on him. Even when their parents began to demand of him to better himself in his early teens, Jean’s brothers were always close to ease to blow. He was their little brother, and that didn’t change no matter how tall he grew. He might not have much in common with them, but grown up he still loved them with the same adoration he’d felt as a child.

He had no wish to be like them though. Didn’t want their positions. When their father had announced his departure to the capital a few months before, telling them that only the oldest two were to come with him, Jean was happy to stay behind. Not because of the responsibility expected of him in their absence, but the thought of playing court with the king didn’t appeal to him at all. Besides, he’d have to be away from Marco for months. It was already hard enough to find time to meet him.

Yet, there was something they had that he wished for as well. The lord might not be as displeased with him anymore, but Jean missed the time when he could get a smirk and gleaming eyes from his father. It was with a bad feeling curling in his stomach that he tried to accept he hadn’t even been offered to come with them if he wished to; even if he would still have stayed in Trost, the implication that his father wanted him to come would have warmed in the depth of his core. It was a long time since he had made his father genuinely proud, and it bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

But the situation was as it was, and once the older men left to attend to the king, Jean shouldered the duties they had left for him. His reluctance had been burned away by something his father had said shortly before the departure, and the thought of coming change made the months leading up to it somewhat more bearable.

He wasn’t handling it without faults, though. He didn’t even try to hide his annoyance when someone else in the Council spoke ill of commoners and witches, and his disinterest in matters he saw no point in did not go unnoticed. These things he didn’t care for were important pillars in the social structure they were meant to uphold, and his lack of concern made it very easy for the old men and women to be displeased with him.

‘You need to stop acting this way, Jean,’ his mother tried to say, many times. ‘Or you’ll never gain the respect as their leader—’

‘But I don’t _want_ it, Mother!’ he exclaimed in return, making a wide gesture with his arm. ‘And neither do I need it. It’s been agreed on, remember?’

The duchess sighed, both annoyed and resigned, giving him another stern gaze. ‘ _Yes_. But it’s still a year away, and as you know, one of the conditions is that you _behave_ until then.’

‘I honestly don’t see why it has to wait another year. No one wants me here, anyway; it’s ridiculous to prolong it.’

‘Don’t be like that. Your family will miss you.’

Jean snorted, earning a disapproving frown from his mother.

‘Jean. Don’t dismiss the improvement you’ve made as nothing. Your father is proud of you, even if he doesn’t spell it out.’ Lady Kirschtein gave him a stern stare, the kind she reserved for moments when disagreeing with her wasn’t an option. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘you still have to prove yourself ready to hold the position. Take this time to do so.’

Rolling his eyes, Jean ended the conversation with an unconvincing gesture of agreement. But thinking about Marco, and what they could have together if only Jean got through this farce another few months set him back on track.

These months didn’t change what his life had always been, though. It wasn’t as critical for him to uphold their reputation, and he wasn’t expected to lead. He wouldn’t take over his father’s position with no other choice than to obey the fate he’d been born into. And his marriage could wait, instead of being arranged as soon as he came of age. This last part was what he’d been the most grateful for the past year. But things can quickly change, and so they tend to do.

This wasn’t the change he had been waiting for.

He didn’t know how long time passed. It was all just a blur, the pain in his chest so unbearable he didn't know what to do other than cling to Marco’s warmth, trying desperately to only focus on him, or nothing at all. Jean’s skin strained over his cheeks, red and swollen from all the salt of tears. He felt hollow, distant. A shadow of himself, left behind in a strange limbo while his real self moved on with the life he was promised to get. The life that was gone.

They were on the bed, wrapped in blankets and supported by pillows, Marco so close Jean only had to turn his face to the side to hide against his neck. But he remained still now, staring up at the ceiling.

‘I… I was to get a small castle farther up in the Vale,’ he mumbled finally, thinking back to when his father had agreed to the arrangement. ‘It’s not much more than a tower, really, surrounded by a wall, on a cliff. It’s so beautiful, and calm and silent, just nature and the world around it. The old warden, one of my great-aunts, doesn’t have any children, and she’s old now. I… I was supposed to take over… to live there and look over the villages scattered over the valley and report back to Father and eventually Alden.’

His voice trembled, and despite Marco watching him, he still didn’t meet his eyes. But he could feel Marco's gaze, his attention and concern.

‘It’d be just me and the few servants that live there, a-and I wouldn’t have had… I could have…’ A new stream of tears forced their way from his eyes, and he turned to look at Marco, his fingers coming up to run through his soft hair. ‘I could have remained unmarried,’ he said. He gazed into Marco’s eyes, brushing his thumb over the freckles on Marco’s cheekbone. ‘I could have brought you there… if you’d wanted to…’

‘You never told me anything about this,’ Marco said, his voice low. Jean wasn't sure if it held any traces of hurt for being left out, but he hoped Marco would understand in either case.

‘I… I wanted it to be a surprise. And I didn’t want to make empty promises and have you believe things and make decisions about your own life because of something I’d said… Father didn’t approve until right before they left anyway, and… now…’

As his voice failed him and new tears rushed down his cheeks, Jean fell silent. Marco was quiet too, so the only sounds filling the chamber were Jean’s strained breathing and suppressed sobs. He didn't want to cry anymore, but he was not strong enough to control the rushing tides. Marco held him close, tight enough for warmth but not restricting. Jean's body had to tremble until it found calm on its own, but Marco’s arm was there around his waist to cling to for support when he needed it.

‘I just wanted to be with you,’ Jean finally got out, blinking away the final tears for this time. He felt so selfish for focusing on this, but he still couldn't grasp what had happened. That they were gone forever, that he would never see them again. Never hear their voices, their laughter, their frustration.

 _Murdered_.

Jean closed his eyes, swallowing hard and willing away the image of his brother’s frozen face, and thoughts of how it had come to be. His mind didn't listen.

‘Jean… Love.’ Marco was so gentle with his touches, like he feared Jean would shatter into a million pieces if he held him too tight. Jean clung to him, his mind moving on to images of his nephew and niece. They were so young, only children. Not even ten years old; they were used to playing with their father between his duties, and had longed more than anyone for his return. But they would never see him again.

The words fell over Jean’s lips before he could stop them, stabbing his own chest with grief and shame. The last thing he wanted was to bring back still hurting memories for Marco, but there he was rambling and sobbing about lost fathers, while Marco did his best to comfort him. It wasn’t right. Marco shouldn’t have to listen to any of this.

But his broken apologies were shushed by soft whispers and tender fingers brushing through his hair. Marco rested his forehead to Jean’s, eyes closing as his own tears silently rolled down his cheeks.

Jean sniffed. Exhaustion seeped through him; sleep hid in the corner of his eyes. He wished to forget all of this, to shut out everything that’d happened. And so, nuzzling closer to Marco’s shoulder, he slept.

When his mother returned, Marco was trying to make him eat of the food that’d been brought there for them. Marco fell silent, his expression closing as he watched her step inside, but the concern in his eyes was still visible to Jean. He himself only spared her a glance before glaring down at the plate, poking at the vegetables with the fork.

Silence hung heavy for what felt like an age, until Lady Kirschtein cleared her throat. She stood with her back straight and head held high, the grief already hidden away so well even Jean could have been fooled. ‘You have to get dressed now,’ she said, referring to the black clothes that had been left on a chair for him a while earlier. ‘You’re expected at the Council meeting.’

Jean let out an unamused snort without looking up at her. Marco shifted uncomfortably beside him. ‘I’m not going.’

There was no need for his mother to say anything to that, or for him to see her; her silent disapproval oozed through the air by its own force, stinging his skin. Ignoring it, he bent deeper over the food, even though it was clear to all three of them that he had no interest in eating.

‘That’s not up for discussion,’ Lady Kirschtein said, her voice calm and chilly. ‘It’s your duty. You’re going to be present from this day forward, or I’ll have no other choice but to arrest him.’

Jean’s eyes shot up then, followed by the rest of him rising from the bed. Marco was frozen in place, the fear shifting over his face making anger flare inside Jean. He met his mother’s stare with his own, hers closed and his wide open. ‘Don’t you dare threaten him,’ he spit out. ‘He has nothing to do with this, and you know it as well as I do!’

She sighed, posture crumbling for a moment. ‘I do,’ she said; Jean sensed Marco’s surprise in the way his pose shifted, and imagined his expression showed the same thing. But he only squeezed Marco’s shoulder, without taking his eyes off his mother. Her full focus was on him too, as if Marco wasn’t present to hear her speaking of him this way. ‘And as a lord, you’d have the power to challenge such accusations. Don’t look at me like that, Jean. I do not make this threat to be cruel — it’s a last resort, because I don’t think you understand the situation we’re in. If you don’t shoulder this responsibility, they will send a new lord from Mitras, and then you _will_ lose him. There’d be no way for me to fight The King’s Laws.’

Frustrated tears stung in Jean’s eyes, and blinking angrily he turned his head away, from both of them. Marco’s fingers found his between them, the supporting touch more than he could bear. ‘I could leave,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘You can’t stop me from leaving.’

‘No,’ his mother admitted, a trace of pity lacing her voice. ‘But I don’t have to, because you know your responsibility and although you try to pretend you don’t care, you do. You have it in you to lead, and now I need you to let that through.’ Her gaze left Jean then, moving over to Marco before she turned back towards the closed door. ‘Make sure he gets ready,’ she said. ‘It starts in an hour.’

The moment the door shut again, Jean exploded. He almost kicked the tray with the food out of sight, clenched and opened his fists around thin air, all while cursing his mother and the whole situation. ‘I can’t believe she has the nerve!’ he snarled. ‘She’s saying that her mind is changed and yet she has no problem abusing her power—’

‘Jean,’ Marco started, rising from the edge of the bed.

‘She has no right to treat you like this!’

‘There’s truth in what she said, though.’ Marco fidgeted with his sleeve, flinching somewhat at Jean’s angry stare. But it didn’t stop him from continuing. ‘I’m not saying I’m comfortable with how she speaks of me, because I’m really not. But...’ He reached for Jean’s hand, entwining their fingers between them. ‘There has to be two rulers whether or not you’re one of them, but if you are… you could save innocent people from terrible punishments. You could make a difference. And it’s not forever; once your nephew is old enough—’

Jean shook his head, stepping away from Marco’s touch. ‘It’s _years_ , Marco! Ten years until he’s eighteen and even then it might be longer before he’s ready. _I’m_ not ready.’

‘But he's being raised for it. Jean. Jean, listen to me—’ Marco’s hands found Jean’s cheeks, gentle but also firm, holding his face still to catch his gaze. Jean reluctantly let him. ‘I’ll wait. You know that. No matter how long it takes. Even if it never happens. I’ve never expected to get anything. I’m just grateful for the moments we have.’

‘But you do want more, don’t you?’ Jean searched his expression, for a moment caught by doubt. How could he be so calm about this? How could he be okay with it at all?

Marco’s eyes fell. ‘Of course I do,’ he said, a sad smile wavering across his lips. ‘But I’m in love with a prince, you know. I’ve known nothing could come from this from the moment you knocked on my door. And still I went with you. It’s just the way it is.’

Jean sighed, his shoulders falling. He watched the old tapestries covering the walls, detailed illustrations of garden parties and summery forests. He’d always longed for the life outside; accepting his duty meant he’d have to give up all he had ever hoped for. ‘I can't do this,’ he said, even though it wasn’t much of a choice. Running away might hold a stronger appeal than ever, but he knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave his mother alone after this. ‘I’m not like them, I don't know how to be a leader…’

‘But you have to,’ Marco said, because he understood it too. ‘And you can. Jean. You may not be like them, but there are more ways than one to do it right. You’ll figure it out, I know.’

When Petra knocked on the door to let them know it was time, Jean was dressed and remains of tears were washed from his face. But he was far from ready; even when Petra stood there waiting to escort him, he didn’t look up to meet her eyes. Distracted by thoughts of things that’d been and what was to come, mixed with intruding images of his lost family, Jean stood staring at nothing while his fingers touched the buttons of his collar.

Then Marco was there before him again. ‘You can do this,’ he repeated, taking Jean’s cheeks in his hands. Holding his gaze. ‘You can.’

Jean leaned his forehead to Marco’s, hands on his. Eyes closing with a sigh, trembling lips searching for a last kiss of support. Then he nodded, a short, barely visible movement, before he parted from Marco, from the life he wanted, and followed Petra out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took much longer than I had planned and I'm very sorry for that. I've had a lot of problems with it, but now it's finally done and here! And I promise chapter 3 won't take this long, because it's already done. :D I'll post it in two or three weeks, to give myself time to work on future chapters and try to keep to some kind of schedule as I first intended.
> 
> (In case anyone wonders why I've made up new names for family members that do have canon names, it's because these characters have nothing to do with the canon personalities/relationships — and I'm really bad at canon in general tbh — so it felt weird to call them those names.)
> 
> Anyway, as always I hope you guys enjoy the read; please let me know if you do! It's very encouraging and means so much! <3
> 
> My [tumblr](http://emelianss.tumblr.com) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/emelianss).

Grief and uncertainty shifted through the corridors of the castle, hushed whispers and silence saying more than words spoken out loud. In the city the worry came in waves; fear for another attack by the cold-blooded murderers, and nagging concern about whether their new young lord would be up to the task of keeping them safe.

Jean had been taught to lead, of course. He had the same schooling as his brothers, the same tasks asked of him. But they were like made for their roles, and Jean in his turn had never dreamed of ever being in the position he now found himself. This was so far from anything anyone in the castle had planned or foreseen, and to begin with even the people in the Council let Jean’s uncertainty and awkward behaviour slide. But it couldn’t go on for long; he knew that without his mother telling him so. Especially when a representative of the king came from the capital, there to hear the new duke’s vows of loyalty.

The high priestess insisted on assigning her own guards around both Jean and the children; he wasn’t sure why it made his mother so uneasy, but whatever her reasons were, he had his own for disliking being followed around. For one thing, it meant he was being treated like another child despite why she was visiting in the first place. But most of all it bothered him because it made it impossible to meet Marco during the whole time the royal party was there.

It was probably for the best though. At least he knew he was being watched; if he believed he was alone, he might have led them to Marco by accident. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened then.

‘I don’t like those people,’ Petra murmured one day as she stood close to Jean, eyes on the guards from the capital. ‘Don’t trust them at all.’

‘Why?’

The guard frowned in thought, not quite able to put her finger on it. ‘Something in their eyes when they look at you. And the children. I don’t like it.’

Jean didn’t notice it, but they might be too good at hiding it from him. He was glad he had his familiar guards close too, though. Just in case.

He learned through them that Marco was leaving; they had agreed to take a few letters between them, and although reading Marco’s words offered a support sorely needed, it wasn't enough. The thought of not seeing him again for weeks, possibly months, made Jean convince his guards to help him get out once to say goodbye.

They met in secret in the room Marco rented at the outskirts of Trost, hidden by dirt and misery of poorer quarters.

Jean only had to knock the door once; it flew open so fast Marco must have been waiting. His shining eyes spoke of longing as he pulled Jean into the room and his embrace, with such force they almost stumbled over each other’s feet. But Jean steadied himself with his arms around Marco’s neck, his fingers burying into the thick, messy curls. Marco met his lips with the same desperation, pushing him back and up against the closed door; Jean responded by wrapping his legs around Marco’s hips, pressing them closer together.

‘Like this?’ Marco panted against Jean’s mouth. He was eager too, as needy for the contact as Jean, but hesitation still held him back. Jean forced his eyes open, finding Marco watching him intently, the hunger mixed with such adoration all Jean could do was letting his head fall back against the door with a low groan. Marco’s hot breath fanned over his neck, strong arms holding him close. ‘This... It’s what you want?’

‘ _Yes_.’ Jean let out a broken whimper. ‘Yes, god, Marco, please—’

It wasn’t the first time they’d met in a rush, either or both of them begging for the closeness. They weren’t really in a hurry now, but Marco understood anyway; he took the control Jean pushed over to him without any more hesitation.

He eased them down on the bed together, not letting go of Jean longer than to pull off his own shirt and throw it away. Then he was over him again, kissing his mouth, his chin, his neck; hands sliding in under his shirt, working it up over his chest and leaving a trail of kisses in its wake.

Jean sunk into the mattress, melting under Marco’s touch and attention. He’d needed this for so long; to just let go of everything and forget. Marco knew, as he knew every spot of Jean’s body that’d make him quiver; make him feel so good his mind blanked out all thoughts of anything else.

They fumbled with the rest of the clothes, sharing needy kisses and breathy laughs, hands travelling over well-known maps, discovering each part anew. With only the folds of sheets left to brush against their bare skin, Marco moved down between Jean’s legs, lips and fingers drawing ragged gasps from his throat. Marco’s eyes were gleaming when Jean glanced down, a pleased smirk playing over his mouth. Gorgeous; so gorgeous. Jean let his head fall back with a groan, his breath staggering as Marco kept touching him, his own fingers twisting in the sheets.

When Marco’s lips met his neck, hips rocking slowly against him, both of them twitched, eager and needy but waiting. ‘You ready?’ he breathed into Jean’s ear, nose nuzzling in his hair.

Jean nodded, shivers rushing over his skin. ‘Y-yes,’ he managed, searching for Marco’s mouth with his own. He’d hooked his legs around Marco’s waist again, holding him close, moving with him.

Deep moans soon spilled out of Jean’s mouth. A part of him worried about being too loud; they always tried to keep it down when others were close enough to hear, both to avoid disturbing anyone and make sure they weren’t found. The walls were thin here, and he’d seen at least one person enter the room beside theirs before reaching Marco’s door.

Marco noticed his concern, of course he did. He leaned down and kissed Jean’s lips, catching the pleased noises with his own mouth. ‘Just let go,’ he murmured, his voice deep, exhilarating. His fingers traced Jean’s lips, parting them. Jean moaned again. ‘Let it out. Don’t think. I’ve got you.’

Jean pressed a kiss to Marco’s palm, hoping his eyes could convey the delirious affection that filled him.

Marco smiled, kissing the tip of his nose in reply. ‘I love you too.’

Jean hugged Marco close, clinging to his shoulders. He needed them to touch everywhere, skin against skin, to surround himself with Marco’s whole being. Drown in his presence and love. Kisses wandered over his neck, each one adding more heat to Jean’s trembling body. It grew through him, the pleasure and adoration for this good, beautiful boy, until he knew of nothing else.

Marco held him close as the intense waves washed over him, love panted against his neck; afterwards his touch and affection eased Jean down again, every muscle in his tense body relaxing.

The craving was strong to cuddle close and bury his face in Marco’s shoulder as he fell asleep. But Marco wasn’t there yet; Jean reached down between them, a visible tremble running through Marco’s body at the attention.

His hooded eyes drank in the sight of Jean beneath him. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he whimpered, pressing sloppy kisses to Jean’s mouth and cheeks. Jean held Marco’s gaze; he knew how weak his eyes made him, and the thought brought a tired but sly smile to his lips. Marco whimpered again, resting his brow against Jean’s.

When his arms finally gave away, Marco let his head fall to rest on Jean’s shoulder, body and breath shaking. He was heavy on top of Jean like this, but Jean loved that weight. He freed his hand from between them and wrapped both arms around Marco’s shivering form, hugging him even closer and pressed kisses to his sweaty forehead.

Lulled by warmth and affection, Jean’s eyes closed, his breathing deepening. Sleep didn't take him completely though; he noticed when Marco forced himself up, kissing his cheek before untangling from his arms. The whine of protest didn’t stop him from leaving, but he was soon back again. With gentle care, he wiped the cloth down Jean’s stomach, then trailed his lips over the skin and muscles, as if to ease away any remaining tension. When he returned to Jean’s embrace, he kissed up his arm and shoulder, the last ones planted on his neck before burying his nose in the warmth there. Jean let out a happy hum in response, pulling him close.

Falling asleep and waking up beside Marco was a privilege rarely experienced, and Jean wished he could have savoured it longer. But sleep came quickly, and held him all through the night until light filtered in through the boards of the closed window.

His face rested on Marco’s shoulder, and he mumbled softly at the sensation of Marco’s fingers in his hair and on his cheek. Their bodies lay close together, legs entwined under the blankets, Marco’s arm embracing him.

‘Good morning, love,’ Marco smiled and planted a soft kiss by Jean's fluttering eye. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Mmmm.’ Jean stretched, rubbing his eyes. ‘Too well. I’d hoped to wake up and get to watch your beautiful sleeping face.’

Marco let out a soft laugh. ‘Was my turn for that,’ he said and brushed Jean’s bangs out of his face. But his expression sobered quickly. ‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ he continued as he trailed his fingers down Jean’s neck and back. ‘It’s dangerous for you to walk around unprotected now. Fate shouldn’t be tempted.’

A sleepy smirk tugged at Jean’s lips, and he tilted his head back on the pillow to give Marco a raised eyebrow in reply. ‘You didn’t say anything about that last night,’ he pointed out, grinning wider at Marco’s blush and pouting lips. ‘You were perfectly happy with me being here, as far as I noted.’

‘Oh, I was. Still am.’ He nuzzled a kiss to Jean’s shoulder, his last words mumbled into Jean’s skin. ‘Just worried.’

Jean sighed. ‘Can we stay here?’ he whispered, hugging Marco closer, unwilling to leave the warmth and comfort of his body. ‘I don’t want to go back.’

Marco hummed, replying with another soft kiss instead of words.

‘I don’t want to swear loyalty to the king,’ Jean continued, staring up at the ceiling. ‘I’ll be a traitor from the very first moment. Knowing where you live but not going there to arrest you…’

‘I know.’

Jean swallowed, blinking back the emotions rising behind his eyes. It wasn’t an excuse for all the grief his parents had caused through the years, but it might explain it. They protected their own, after all. Followed the laws not to be accused of treason.

But death had come anyway, from those who fought against the laws rather than forced faithfulness. There was no safe way, no option that didn’t endanger himself and those he loved. The thought of entering this game for life now made Jean’s stomach churn.

‘Please don’t leave.’

Marco sighed, wrapping his arms tighter around him; Jean buried his face in the warmth of Marco’s neck, allowing himself to hide away for a while longer.

‘You were right, though,’ Jean said later, when they were standing by the door and Marco fussed over Jean’s cloak to make sure he stayed warm. Marco stopped, meeting Jean’s eyes with a frown. ‘I shouldn’t have come here. For your sake too. If someone had followed me—’

‘They didn’t,’ Marco interrupted, frown deepening. ‘And I’m glad you came,’ he added, eyes and voice falling. ‘If it weren’t for the king’s people being here, I would have stayed—’

‘I know.’

‘I already miss you.’

Jean nudged his forehead to Marco’s, making him look up again. ‘You better be ready to show up as soon as they’re gone,’ he said. It was meant as a light joke, but his heart ached for it to really be so.

Marco chuckled. ‘Of course, my lord.’ Jean sighed, and Marco stroked gentle fingers down his cheek. ‘You can do this. I know you can.’

Nodding slowly, Jean forced the grim expression from his face, replacing it with a tight smile. ‘I can.’

Marco leaned in for a last kiss, mumbling his goodbye against Jean’s lips. ‘You have all my well wishes and love. Good luck.’

And then Jean left the room, hidden in his cloak. He knew Marco wanted to see him safely back to the gate, but he couldn’t risk Marco being discovered. So he did it alone, returning to the future he forced himself to accept; to vows of loyalty to a monarch whose laws he despised.

* * *

It was a late autumn evening when the unexpected visitors came by. Marco had spent the day working down in the village, and now he was tired and relieved to be home. His mother met him by the door, a soft frown on her face. ‘Marco,’ she greeted, squeezing his arm as he pulled off his cloak. ‘There’s a group of young women here to see you.’ Marco raised an eyebrow in question, to which Elena responded with a nod. ‘They’re telling me you’re friends.’

Bewildered beyond words, Marco followed his mother back into the kitchen where the three guests were seated by the table. The twins stood close, curiosity making them bold enough to talk with them; their focus was now on the smirking woman on the right, her fingers forming some kind of magic in the air for them to watch with shining eyes. She was tall even when sitting down, her brown hair pulled back from her freckled face in a messy tail at her neck.

On the other end sat the one with the sword, her short black hair glimmering in the light from the fireplace. Her stony expression unchanging as Marco stepped in.

But it was the one in the middle that rose from the chair and took a step towards him while speaking his name, long blonde hair swirling behind her from the quick movement, and it was her Marco looked to for answers.

‘Krista!’ he exhaled, staring at her in disbelief. They had only met once after all, and while he sensed no threat from any of them, seeing them in his home like this stirred a terrible unease in his stomach. ‘How did you find where I live?’

‘Hanji Zoë,’ she replied without hesitance. ‘You mustn’t fear us being here, Marco,’ she added as she read Marco’s expression correctly. ‘We intend no harm by showing up like this. In fact,’ she said glancing at her companions before returning her blue gaze to him. ‘We need your help.’

Marco watched her in a moment of silence, trying to judge if he could trust her or not. Hanji wouldn’t give out their position to just anyone but there was still something about it that nagged at him to be careful. Especially since he hadn’t seen Hanji in months; not since they left at the break of winter with only cryptic words about where they were going. Exchanging a short look with Elena, Marco took a step closer. ‘What is it?’ he asked, searching Krista’s face for any trace of shielded dishonesty.

Taking a deep breath, Krista prepared herself for what she was about to say, or the reaction it would cause. Maybe both. ‘You know what has happened to Lord Kirschtein and the oldest princes,’ she said, and whatever it was Marco had expected, it wasn’t this. He remembered they were connected to the Rebels, and that the murders had been committed in their name.

‘Milo, Macy’, he said, voice sharp to tear the twins’ attention from Ymir’s magic back to him. He gestured for them to come, and when they protested he repeated it out loud. They did as told, sending uncertain glances at the three guests as they moved around them; Ymir’s eyes followed with a gleaming hunger, her smirk still etched on her face.

‘Marco,’ Krista said when Elena had pulled her youngest children close to her. Her tone was pleading, expression asking him to believe her. ‘I swear to you, no matter what you’ve heard we did not kill them! None of the Rebels did. That’s why we need your help; I need to see Jean—’

‘You really think I’d take you to him after what’s been done to his family?’ Marco interrupted, a flare of anger behind his words. But he took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.

‘I need you to trust me,’ Krista said, unflinching. ‘I have something important to tell him.’

‘What?’

Uncertainty wavered over her shoulders, her lips pursed in hesitation. ‘I… I can’t tell you—’

‘Really?’ Marco almost laughed, but without any amusement. ‘You want me to trust you, Krista, but you won’t—’

‘My name is Historia Reiss,’ she cut in. ‘Let’s start with that.’

Elena took a sharp breath behind him, her eyes wide when they met his glance. The twins looked between them and the guests, puzzlement deep in their frowns.

Marco turned back towards her. ‘That’s… not…’ He wasn't sure what he meant to say. Not possible? Not believable?

Krista — _Historia_ — took a step closer, pulling down her collar to reveal a long golden chain she carried around her neck. She took the medallion in her hand, holding it up between them for Marco to see the royal crest decorating it. ‘My mother gave this to me before she died,’ she said. ‘Ymir can confirm it; she was there, too.’

Marco glanced at Ymir, meeting her dangerous stare. He wasn't sure how anything she said was supposed to convince him this was true.

Historia put away the necklace again and sighed. ‘I don't expect you to let your walls fall down, just like that. You're right to be suspicious. I’m only asking for a chance to talk to him. It concerns him too.’

Marco looked between them, from Historia’s troubled face to the other women behind her. Even Ymir had dropped her smirks now, replacing them with a resolved expression Marco hadn’t seen on her before. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, of any of this.

But the truth remained that from the very start, he had been unable to believe the Rebels were behind the murder of Jean’s family. He had nothing to prove it with, nothing to base it on other than intuition. Historia’s claims could answer the questions bothering him since then, and if she truly was who she said…

Questions may be answered, but the situation would grow even more complicated.

When Marco first met them, it’d been summer. Only a year ago now, but with all that had happened since then, it felt much, much longer. Like another life, a dream; when warmth buzzed with birds in the air, water swirled calm around his body, and Jean’s lips met his skin each with a new confession of love.

The small group had taken them by surprise, an attack that could have had a terrible outcome if it’d been done by ill-willing people. Marco still cursed himself for letting his guard down so foolishly, and since then he never fully relaxed again when alone with Jean in the forest. But the outlaws who caught them that time weren’t interested in bloodshed; all they wanted was a way to free their imprisoned friend, and once Marco showed them that he was a witch too, relief washed over them like a tide meeting the shore.

Jean wasn’t so easy to calm, though. He acted the part for sure, but when he had to leave Marco behind and head back to the castle together with the scariest of the women, Marco saw the fear in his eyes. Not for his own sake; Mikasa might be the superior fighter of the two, and if he gave her any reason to mistrust his behaviour as they entered Trost, she’d no doubt make sure he regretted it. But what he worried about was what would happen to Marco if he failed the task.

Marco sent him a reassuring smile as they left, doing his best to convey the calm he tried to spread through his own body too. He wasn’t really scared, but he was supposed to be their hostage, so any friendly smiles and words directed at him were tainted by the strained situation. He sat in silence on a log, watched by Ymir from her place by a tree opposite from him. She circled a big hunting knife in her hands, the wicked smirk on her face completing the image of a bandit taken from the worrying tales spread to the city from lonely roads across the countryside.

The only man in the group was tall and gangly, with long blonde hair falling into his eyes. He introduced himself as Armin, sent Ymir a reproachful glare, and then tried talking with Marco for a while before retreating to a worn old book he carried with him.

Krista had stayed in the background until then, hidden so well Marco didn’t notice her. But all of a sudden she was sitting beside him, smiling like the sun, and asking questions about Jean and their relationship. The other two raised eyebrows at her, and Marco was too surprised to find any answers at first. But she eased his nerves with gentle laughs and tales of her own; about far away cities and faithful Ymir who’d been by her side since they were children. ‘She acts all tough,’ she whispered, loud enough to make sure Ymir heard her, ‘but in truth she’s a big softie.’

Ymir scoffed, and Marco laughed. ‘I know what you mean,’ he said, and Krista’s smile grew wider.

During that day Marco found himself befriending three witches on their way to find the Rebels in the south. They’d been farther away when their friend Eren had shapeshifted by accident, and as he was caught and taken north to Trost, they’d had no choice but to follow. He did no harm but had not yet learned how to control it. Armin explained they hoped to find a teacher for him among the Rebels; that’s why he, Eren and Mikasa were on their way there. They’d met Krista and Ymir a few weeks before and decided to team up with them.

Marco was intrigued by the talk of the Rebels. He didn’t want to admit it to Jean, not before this and not after, but part of him had a longing for those people. A hidden society where he could be himself without fear, fighting for their right to no longer have to hide at all. When he asked Krista why she was searching for them, she shrugged with a sad smile, and replied she wanted a home. Something about her words cut into Marco’s chest, opening up for a stream of emotions he’d safely locked away. He knew what she meant.

When evening came, almost as light and warm as the day, Jean and Mikasa returned accompanied by the person they’d left to rescue. Armin jumped up from his place in the grass and rushed to his two friends, hugging them both tightly.

Jean eyed them with a weary expression as he stepped around them, then hurried over to Marco who met him halfway and let himself be pulled into the embrace. ‘I can’t believe it worked,’ Jean exhaled against Marco’s ear and pressed a forceful kiss to his cheek. He then leaned back to catch Marco’s eyes. ‘And I can’t believe that while I’ve been worrying sick all day, you’ve made some new best friends.’

Marco let out a breathy laugh, and pressed a light kiss to Jean’s lips. ‘Would you’ve preferred to find me beaten and bloody?’

‘Of course not! Gods, don’t even joke about that.’ Jean’s eyes then fell on something behind Marco, his frown deepening; when Marco turned he found Krista watching them closely. She wore the same soft smile as before, widening it to make them feel comfortable with her gaze. But Marco sensed a maze of turning thoughts swirling around her head, observing, saving information for later. Jean shifted, the tension returning to his muscles. Marco placed a reassuring hand on Jean’s back, rubbing his fingers in soothing circles.

‘It’s okay,’ he said, catching Jean’s attention with a loving smile. ‘They’re nice people.’

Jean nodded, allowing himself to let go of the suspicion for now. He nuzzled closer into Marco’s embrace, his skin still hot from the day’s long hours of sunshine.

This year’s summer had been chilly, as if nature itself knew of the deep sorrow cast over the noble family of Trost, and grieved with them. Or maybe it was a warning of even colder years to come. Marco was worried to wonder too much about that.

It was a few weeks deeper into autumn when Marco sat by a table in the same inn he and Jean met in months before, drumming his fingers on the wood. Snow had already started to fall outside, swirling in the air and covering the ground in a thin white blanket.

Marco knew the moment Jean came through the door that it was him. He could hide in the plainest clothes available, hood pulled up over his head like any other worker searching a warm meal after a long day, but Marco always knew. Jean’s head turned as his eyes searched over the room while brushing snowflakes from his shoulders; when finally he noticed Marco in the corner, his face lit up with a wide smile.

For a moment, Marco’s concern was shoved away from his mind. Jean pulled down the hood and continued to brush snow from his messy hair, revealing that instead of hiding under it all the way he’d stopped somewhere to appreciate the snowfall. Marco’s heart jolted with affection, and smiled softly at the sight of Jean’s rosy cheeks and nose. He found his place opposite from Marco, and before sitting down he leaned over the table to kiss him hello. His lips were still cold, but Marco didn’t mind at all. ‘God, I missed you,’ he whispered, gazing at Marco through his eyelashes.

Marco hummed in reply, fingers buried in the fur of Jean’s cloak to hold him in place as he went in for another kiss.

‘We should hurry up and get this table away from between us,’ Jean chuckled as he leaned back on his chair. He removed his gloves while again looking around the room, nodding to a barmaid to come over.

Marco smiled, but Jean was too excited to notice the discomfort in his posture. He was so happy to see Jean again and wanted nothing more than to forget the world with him for a while… but he knew far too well who waited upstairs for them to get done with the meal. And while he could find Jean in a crowd of similarly dressed people, he had no idea how Jean would react to what he was about to tell him. The thought of an approaching fight made his stomach turn, and even though the food they were served looked delicious, he found it hard to eat much.

Jean on the other hand ate with great appetite, smiling again towards the blonde, bored girl who had served them. He was in a wonderful mood, Between each bite he told Marco silly anecdotes about people at court, but made sure to keep the stories ambiguous enough not to reveal his position in case someone was listening. He held his spoon in one hand, while the other rested on the table, fingers laced with Marco’s. Now and then he squeezed them, sending Marco loving smiles that shone brighter than any summer day had done since they parted.

But then Marco’s eyes fell on the people waiting by the foot of the stairs on the other side of the room. When Jean saw his tight expression, his smile faded, and once he turned to see where Marco was looking, any chance for it to bloom again vanished.

They didn’t finish the meal.

There were too many people present in the taproom, not to mention the barmaid watching them with suspicion from the bar, and as Jean refused to go upstairs, they went outside instead. The street was less busy than earlier, with only a few people wandering past on their way home. None cared to look at them twice. Yet Marco had an unnerving feeling of being watched, but his search for any spy was interrupted by Jean tugging him close.

‘Marco, what’s going on?’ he hissed, staring at the trio still standing a few steps away from them. His brows were set in a frown, the expression growing more into a scowl with each passing moment.

‘They came to visit me,’ Marco replied, voice low. The others could no doubt hear him, and it seemed wrong to exclude them by whispering lower, but Jean clearly needed the illusion of this being between only the two of them. ‘They… they wanted to meet you. Tell you things.’

Jean’s eyes darkened. ‘Are they threatening you?’ he asked, his hands clenching, the danger growing behind his voice. ‘The twins?’

‘No, no. They’re not, everyone’s fine.’ Marco sent Historia a glance over his shoulder, trying to find the words he’d decided would be the best to use. But they were out of reach, vanished without a trace. He wondered if they’d ever been there at all. ‘They’re not bad people, Jean,’ he said instead. ‘I think you should listen to—’

‘Not bad people?’ Jean repeated, voice rising, the anger boiling. But behind it was fear, too. Marco silently cursed this whole situation. How did they convince him this would be a good idea? They shouldn’t have come. Marco should have talked to Jean about this alone, without them there. If Jean agreed to meet them, then, and only then, would they be sent for. Doing it like this was placing Jean in a stressful situation without any warning; it wasn’t right to expect him to listen.

‘Levi told us about you,’ Historia said then, her voice ringing clear in the calmness of the street. ‘He said we could trust you.’

Jean faltered, staring at them. ‘You know Levi?’ he asked, bewilderment crossing over his face.

‘Of course. He’s was already there when we arrived last year.’

‘ _That’s_ where Levi went?’ Jean gaped at them. ‘To become an outlaw? A _rebel?’_

Historia shook her head. ‘He returned home.’

‘I…’ Jean’s lips moved around silent words, eyes scanning Historia and the others too. Trying to read them, trying to decide. For a moment it seemed as if her words had calmed him a little, or at least made him curious. But then his shoulders tensed again and he turned towards Marco with hurt deep in his eyes. ‘How could you betray my trust like this?’

‘Jean, I’m sorry. But please,’ Marco said, reaching for his arm. Jean stepped away from his hands. ‘It’s not like that, you know—’

‘These people _murdered_ my family!’

‘I...I don’t think they did.’ Marco let the distance between them be, allowing Jean the space he demanded even though Marco himself felt an urgent need to touch him to make sure he still could. ‘Krista told me—’

‘How can you trust what she says?’ Jean demanded. ‘How can you take her word for it and lead me out here? They’re traitors!’

 _But they’re right_ , Marco wanted to say, though he bit it back. Those words wouldn’t match well with the belief that the Rebels were behind the death of the lord and princes, and he didn’t want to open this rift between them further. ‘I have a feeling it’s not as simple as that,’ he said instead, forcing himself to be calm for both of them.

‘You have a _feeling?’_ Jean repeated, his eyes dangerous. ‘Oh, that’s reassuring.’

It stung more than it should. ‘My feelings are usually right,’ Marco pointed out, trying not to let the hurt show in his voice. It didn’t succeed. ‘That’s why I came back here in the first place.’

‘Yes,’ Jean agreed, but nothing in his tone or posture had changed. ‘Too late to do anything about it, though. You might as well be working with them.’

The regret flashed by in Jean’s eyes the moment the words left his mouth, but instead of trying to take them back, he pressed his lips tight, looking away. They cut sharp into Marco’s chest, his voice small, wavering. ‘Jean…’

Jean didn't look up at him. He sent the others a sharp glare, shaking his head, before turning and hurrying away.

Pressing silence prickled Marco’s back, the three women standing still as they watched and waited for him to face them. He didn’t want to; didn’t want them to see the hurt in his eyes. Part of him wanted to blame Historia for having caused this, but he knew deep down that he was just as much at fault as she was. Even more so.

Back in their room, Marco sat in silence. He stared at his hands resting on the table, mind repeating the past hour over and over again. He didn’t notice dark falling outside; didn’t pay attention to the low murmur between the others.

‘It was wrong to expect anything of him,’ Historia said finally as she rose from the bed she’d been sitting on for a while. ‘I shouldn’t have tried to do this through him. I listened too much to what was told about him and let myself get too high expectations.’

Marco glanced at her, not sure if she was apologising or insulting Jean’s morality. But she wasn’t facing him; her eyes were directed at the window, her mind seeing some place else. Ymir sat on the other side of the table, picking at her nails while her gaze moved between Historia and Marco. Mikasa had disappeared at some point earlier, and Marco found it hard to care about what she was doing.

‘I need you to take me to Lady Kirschstein,’ Historia said then, turning around, focus right at him. ‘I should have gone to her right away.’

A beat of silence passed, before a broken laugh tumbled out over Marco’s lips. ‘You actually think I can just walk into the castle and ask for the duchess?’ he asked, too tired to even be angry. ‘In case you didn’t pay attention, my only way inside left because he feels I’ve betrayed him.’

Historia didn’t flinch. ‘You have other ways inside,’ she said, holding his gaze.

Marco didn’t reply. He wouldn’t help her sneak inside the inner walls no matter how much he wanted to believe her. But that wasn’t the only option; he could stay by the gate, asking the wall guards to send for Petra or Auruo, who in their turn would deliver the message to the duchess. He didn’t know what made Historia so convinced Lady Kirschstein would listen, but if she refused then at least Marco had done what was in his power to help.

 _There’s no harm in trying_ , a part of him thought. Then he remembered Jean’s words and the fear in his eyes. Sighing, he dragged a hand down his face. He wanted to mend things between them, not make it worse, and he wasn’t sure which way this would lead.

But sitting here wouldn’t change anything at all. So, praying it was the right decision to make, he agreed.

* * *

Jean’s chambers had never felt this cold before. The fireplace was burning steadily, the windows draped over by thick velvet curtains, and yet the chill refused to leave him. He sat on his bed, huddled in the fur that usually spread over his blankets, staring at the flames as if to will them to warm him better.

The guards tried to talk to him when he came back; concerned questions about why he did so soon, if something had happened. It would have been easy to tell them, to give the order and had it dealt with. But the words tasted of ash and death on his tongue, and instead he swallowed them, forced them down his throat, hating himself for having thought of them at all. He pushed past the guards, allowing them to follow him to his door but answered nothing. And then he hid away in here, shutting out everyone and everything that might offer any sort of company.

Jean sighed, shutting his eyes as he dragged a hand down his face. Marco’s gaze met his again from the dark, red-rimmed and blank with tears he fought to hold back. Jean shouldn't have said what he did. Shouldn't even have thought it. Marco would never do anything to hurt him — if he trusted them, Jean should have listened.

The truth was that he was scared. Scared and confused and conflicted. The Rebels had always only been a word to him; a group of traitors in the south fighting for whatever cause they saw fit. He’d known many of them were witches, or in some way connected to magic. And so when learning more and realising how wrongly the laws treated people like Marco, he figured they might be right to fight.

But their protests and attacks never came this far north. Jean knew they were around, present in some form in every city, but they were too few and too far from backup here to dare cause much trouble. At least until last winter.

He thought back to when he and Marco last met those witches out in the forests between here and Jinae, how badly it could have ended. If they’d wanted to hurt Jean’s family they’d had the perfect opportunity then, but instead they had trusted him. Or maybe that was giving them more credit than they deserved; they kept Marco as assurance after all, and one of them followed him back to Trost to make sure he did as told.

And he didn’t like leaving Marco with them at all. While he himself was the most suitable for the task to free someone from the dungeons in the castle, it wasn’t a certainty he would succeed. What would happen if he failed? Would they hurt Marco if he took too long to return, or returned empty-handed?

He never had to find out about that, of course. Once they came back, Marco was busy making friends with the other three, and if he had been scared at all, he hid it too well for Jean to see much else than vague hints. And whatever might have happened if things had gone differently, fact remained that neither of them had been hurt.

They only wanted to get their friend back. Jean still remembered the way Mikasa’s cold mask broke once Jean had smuggled Eren out; the desperation and relief and _love_ in that hug made him wonder yet again if he judged them too soon. If he had been in her shoes, and Marco was the one imprisoned — what wouldn’t he have done to save him?

But now… why would they do this? What did they achieve by killing a lord and his sons so far in the north? It wasn’t like the king cared. It made no difference to their situation whatsoever.

If it had been the Rebels at all.

Jean sent a quick, avoidant glance towards the draped window to the balcony, but turned his back to it again instead of uncovering the glass. He hadn’t pulled away the thick cloth since then. Couldn’t bare seeing the dark stains he knew were there no longer, and yet had touched the stone for good in his mind.

Still the nagging discomfort wouldn’t go away, and it was a relief when the door opened and a guard stepped inside. He hated to ask for it on his own, like a paranoid, frightened child, especially after how he’d pushed everyone away earlier. But the company was needed, and he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding until then.

‘Would you mind staying inside?’ Jean asked as the guard closed the door, knowing he could just as well command it. But he prefered to ask, like they were somewhat equal, even though he knew it was only an illusion. He left the bed as he spoke, walking over to the small table where some bread and grapes were left for him earlier. Shivering without the fur, he crossed his arms over his chest and glanced towards the window again.

The guard didn’t reply. Frowning, Jean turned towards him again, his bewilderment only deepening when he saw the blank, grey mask the guard was wearing. It covered his face except for the eyes, and those met Jean’s with hard determination. Unflinching.

It happened so fast Jean didn’t have time to form the question before the glinting object the guard swung connected with his head. Dark enlaced him, time and thoughts thrown away out of reach as he stumbled to the floor. He grasped for them, catching enough to force his eyes open; he managed to push up on his elbows, one hand pressed to his head in an attempt to still the spinning. His fingers touched something warm and wet; it rolled down his brow and into one eye, stinging and blinding him even more.

The next thing he knew was the lightning pain cracking in his bones as his arms were torn from beneath him and twisted behind his back. He winched, then gasped at the heavy impact of his already aching head falling back to the floor. A knee to his shoulder blades pressed him down; a moment later a hand forced his mouth shut, muffling any noise or call for help a distant part of his spinning mind now realized he’d lost his chance for.

The floor rolled like waves on the sea, shadows and light swimming in and out of his blurred vision. He kicked out in an attempt to free himself, struggling against the strong hands holding him down, but all he got was another blow to his head and threatening curses. Somewhere in the turmoil he realised there was at least one more person there, but he had no idea how or when they’d gotten inside.

Then a cold sharpness pressed to his arm, and a bolt of alarmed clarity shot through the throbbing confusion in Jean’s skull. As the blade cut through the skin, right below his elbow, the hand over his mouth pressed tighter, silencing his scream before he even realized what was happening. The blade slowly worked its way down to his captured wrist, leaving a stream of blood in its wake. Jean shook his head in panic, kicking and squirming; he knew it was dangerous to move, that he had no chance against his captors with blood and strength leaving him at an alarming speed, but the pain was too horrible not to fight.

When the slippery blade met the skin of his neck, the threat crystal clear even to his faint mind, he stilled. A pathetic whimper left him, tears rolling down his cheeks as the last words he’d said to Marco echoed in his mind.

‘Second warning,’ a voice hissed into his ear; terrified shivers dripped down Jean’s spine. ‘Any more wrong steps and your head will be next.’

* * *

The pang exploding above his left eyebrow came from nowhere, no one else anywhere close enough to have caused it. And yet the impact of it sent Marco stumbling to the side, eyes blinded for a moment before reality blinked back into focus. He was certain he’d fallen to the floor, but instead Petra was holding his arm in attempt to steady him. Leaning at her for support, he bent forward with his free hand pressed to his temple, nausea rolling in his stomach. He felt something warm dribble down his cheek, but no sign of blood stayed on his fingers as he removed them.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.

Breathing heavily, he squinted at the others standing in the hall, guards that he knew and others he only recognised by face, and the new group he hoped he was right to call his friends. His gaze settled on Historia, meeting her concerned frown with his own confused worry. The memory of the severed heads flashed by his inner eye, just as the sensation of steel meeting the skin over his collarbone pierced through his mind. The cold seeped down his back.

‘Jean,’ he whispered, and before he could think of explaining this to the others, he was running. He heard others follow behind him, the guards at first calling for him to wait but then adapting to the situation. They knew where he was going, after all. Knew there was a reason why he panicked.

As he came within sight of Jean’s door, he heard them call for him again. In the back of his mind he reasoned that a plan was needed; barging in like this might put Jean in more danger than he was already. But his aching head and the sensation of the blade against his skin — _Jean’s_ skin — was so fresh he might still be sensing it, and the fear was much stronger than reason. There was no place or time in his heart for hesitation.

He pushed through the door. Everything slowed down.

The chambers lay in silence. There were three figures by the balcony windows, one already slipping out through the door. The other two lingered behind; one was a man dressed like any other guard, wearing a strange grey mask over his face, and caught in his hold was Jean, a blade pressed to the side of his bare neck.

Jean was pale, with a feverish layer to his skin and blood dripping thick down his face from a messy gash along his hairline. The captor held his left arm bent behind him; the other was free, and while Jean’s hand gripped the man’s wrist as if to force the blade away, it was covered in dark blood and any strength to fight had already left him. But his red-rimmed eyes were on Marco, a chaos of emotions twisting through them, all at once. Relief and fear. Pain. Shame. Jean opened his mouth, but before any words got out the man twisted his wrist slightly, threatening him to silence.

Marco took a shaky breath, reaching out his hands. He wasn’t sure if it was to attack or plead; Jean wouldn’t be able to free himself from this, and Marco didn’t dare step any closer for fear of that knife. But he couldn’t just stand there. He had to do _something._

The energy grew stronger in his chest, flames licking the inside walls of his mind. He broke his eye-contact with Jean, shutting out the sight of his worry, and focused instead on the man behind him. Caught his gaze, held it. Willed the fire to spread.

The man swore, almost dropping the knife. Steam rose from the handle, the leather glowing from the heat inside it. Jean shifted quickly, forcing the arm away from him, fighting the hold of his own arm. If only the guard let go of the knife, he was going to get away.

The sudden impact kicking into Marco’s stomach bent him double, leaving him gasping for air and grasping at the tattered ends of his illusion. He heard his name yelled in panic, but it ended in a pained groan and angry curses from the guard as he got hold of Jean again. Marco caught himself with a hand to the floor, forcing himself up with tears stinging in his eyes and the ache spreading like ripples inside his chest.

The second intruder stood by the open door to the balcony, hard eyes on Marco through an identical mask, and one hand still raised and glowing from the attack. Ready to do it again.

‘Wretched witch!’ the first man hissed. He held a handful of Jean’s hair, forcing his head back and pressing the sharp edge of the blade to the skin’s breaking point. Jean winced, lips closing tight around a low whimper. A small stream of red oozed from under the metal.

Marco’s hands shook in surrender. _Please, no. Please, please—_

The distant panting of the guards reached Marco’s ears then. They hadn’t been far behind him, and yet it felt like an age since he entered the room. Now they gathered around him, one of them shouting something but Marco didn’t register what it was.

The two intruders weren’t there to fight, though. They exchanged a look, turning back towards the balcony without caring much for the guards. Jean twisted, struggling to slow them down the only way he was able, but it didn't do much good.

What were their intentions? To _climb?_ No, Marco realised, the horror cutting into his stomach. One of them was a witch, and they weren’t dressed like a guard. They’d come inside somehow; they’d know how to get out again.

Despite the danger, he moved forward. He couldn’t stand there and watch as they took Jean with them, away from any possibility of being saved. But before he came far, the man holding Jean turned towards him again, and catching Marco’s stare, holding it, he slid the blade swiftly down the side of Jean’s neck.

Time sped up again.

Someone — maybe Marco, maybe someone else — yelled wordlessly as Jean stumbled to the floor, eyes widening before rolling back. He was shaking, gasping, when Marco reached him, his fingers fumbling in the blood without enough consciousness left to know what to do. Sobbing his name, Marco forced away his hands to press his own to the wound, focusing all his energy on healing it in time. It didn’t seem deep, and didn’t cross over his throat, _thank the gods._ But it was long, reaching down past his collarbone; while it may not have been intended to kill, blood still flowed rich, seeping between Marco’s fingers despite how hard he fought to still it.

Dim blue light grew beneath his hand, and as the first shot of magic hit, Jean’s eyes opened wide again, head tilting back with a gasp. His panicked stare found Marco’s, blood-stained lips moving around soundless words.

‘Don’t speak!’ Marco urged, his eyesight blurry with tears. He added more pressure to the wound, as much as he dared without doing any harm to Jean’s already restrained breathing. ‘It will be all right, don’t panic! Y-you’ll be all right—’

Pain twisted over Jean’s face. His trembling hand found Marco’s wrist, fingers curving around it, holding tight. A silent tear slid from the corner of his eye down to his ear, pupils searching for something above his head, or maybe avoiding Marco’s gaze.

Shrill shouts filled the air. Marco glanced up, frowning. Some guards had rushed out on the balcony, and the small part of him that had paid attention to what was happening assumed they’d succeeded in stopping the intruders from leaving. But there were no sounds of sword fight; the screams came from the guards, shaking with panic.

Auruo appeared before him, grabbed his shoulder, pushed him down. Marco didn’t see what was happening, but he sensed the electric air, heard the crash of the window glass exploding. He bent over Jean, his face close to his, one hand still at his neck and the other arm shielding their heads.

Auruo pressed against them, his body saving them from most of the shards shooting over the room, but Marco still winced at the stings of glass drilling into his skin. His breath mixed with Jean’s between them, quick and shivering.

A hand on Marco’s shoulder made him look up again; all the glass facing the balcony had shattered, the curtains falling away in ashes as a burning line ate at the edges. A cold, snowy wind swept inside; Jean’s trembling increased, fingers clutching Marco’s sleeve, his eyes heavy as he fought to stay awake.

‘We need to get him out of here,’ Auruo said, grabbing Jean’s arm to help Marco lift him to his feet. Jean winced, but did his best to lessen the weight for them, scrambling his unsteady legs beneath him.

Together they managed to move him through the corridors to the smaller, safer chamber he’d been taken to after the last intrusion. Petra caught up with them halfway, her face pale and shaken as she explained what had happened on the balcony. A rift in space, exploding once the two persons had disappeared through it.

Marco staggered, but forced himself to steady under Jean’s arm. He’d heard of portal magic. But it should be impossible; the magical skill and power needed for such a thing was beyond anything even Hanji had seen growing up in the south. In a different situation he might have been amazed; knowing people wishing harm to Jean could enter here past all barriers without problem filled him with cold, heavy dread.

Petra hurried around them into the chamber, bringing forth a chair for them to lead Jean to. His clothes were dark with blood, Marco’s own shirtfront sticking to his skin, his shoulder wet from Jean’s arm slung over it. He’d been so focused on stopping the blood pouring from Jean’s neck he’d almost forgotten the deep, dark wound snaking over his arm; the pressure added to it from a makeshift bandage made from a piece of cloth had stopped the flow somewhat, but his and Marco’s interlaced fingers were still slippery with blood leaking through.

Jean groaned as Marco helped him against the back of the chair, his brows furrowed and eyes closed tight. Marco wasted no time but unbound the bandage instantly, covering the ugly wound with both hands as he struggled to find his remaining energy. Cold sweat mixed with the stains of Jean’s blood broke down his back, his face shifting between hot and chilly as he worked.

An almost inaudible whisper of his name brought his eyes up to Jean’s face; his eyes kept falling closed as he struggled to focus on Marco. He sat with his head tilted to the side of the chair’s back, his pale neck bared with the red line glaring at Marco, taunting him with its existence. A tremble ran through him, one hand finding Jean’s and squeezing tight. ‘I—I’m so sorry,’ he whispered, tears rushing down his cheeks before he could stop them. ‘This is all my fault. I—I shouldn’t have—’ Jean’s brows furrowed with a slight shake of his head, lips forming the word, but with no energy to voice it. Marco shivered. ‘I’m sorry…’

‘It’s not your fault,’ a voice cut through his sobbing. Taken aback by the sharpness of the tone and who it belonged to, Marco turned, his eyes shooting up. Lady Kirschtein stood still before him, an icy, unbending tower in the remains of a chaotic storm. Except her expression wasn’t cold; it melted down her face, eyes open, angry and relieved all at once. ‘And neither is it yours,’ she added, turned towards the door behind her. Marco glanced over there, finding Historia’s tear-stained pale face.

Lady Kirschtein moved up to Marco’s side, her focus set on Jean. She didn’t say anything as she touched his head with a quivering hand, leaning closer to press a kiss to his brow. Jean’s eyes closed for a moment and he swallowed hard. The touch was brief, but when the duchess straightened up, she held Jean’s gaze, her fingers trailing down his cheek in a gentle gesture. Marco remembered well how broken she had been after losing her older sons; he could barely imagine how frightening this night must have been for her.

‘Marco,’ she said then, back straight and eyes only flickering over him as she turned. ‘Heal the rest of his injuries the best you can, and stay with him tonight. Protect him.’ She paused, as if to let the hidden message of the command sink in, before adding, ‘You’ll both be sent for in the morning.’

‘Yes, Your Highness,’ Marco mumbled in response, his head bowed. She left together with Historia; Marco glanced around the room, finding Petra standing close to them but the other guards gone. He hadn’t even noticed when Auruo left his side.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed up on his feet to reach for the pitcher of water standing on one of the small tables in the chamber. It was cold but better than nothing while they waited for something warm, and he poured it up in the bowl, while Petra fetched a heap of clean cloth from the wardrobe. She helped him move the table closer to the chair so that he could stay by Jean’s side while dipping the cloth in the water.

Jean grimaced as he pressed the first one to the gash at his hairline, but he remained still, letting Marco scrub away the dried blood from his face. As he made the skin knot together, Marco sensed the blow again. From how the light from the candles flashed by in the guards makeshift weapon as it slammed into the side of his head, to how the floor moved as he crashed into it. Nausea rose in his throat and confusion shouted in his head together with the throbbing pain; the furniture spun uncomfortably fast in his vision, blurred by dark spots fighting for control... Marco took a deep breath through his nose, his shaking fingers brushing down Jean’s cheek, thumb stopping on his chin, right below the lips. Jean met his eyes, more awake now, unwilling to look away.

Petra must have noticed the tension hanging over them. ‘Do you need me to do anything else?’ she asked. Marco broke their eye contact and shook his head as he bowed it down, eyes focusing on the bloody skin of Jean’s right arm. She left them then, promising to wait outside.

Marco felt Jean’s eyes on him as he cleaned the rest of the blood away, taking more time and care than needed. But it was for his own sake too. His nerves were still shaking, his stomach churning in fear of what almost happened. How close it had been.

‘So you saved me again,’ Jean finally got out, his voice hoarse, shaky.

A shudder ran through Marco’s body at the words, and his eyes shot up to meet Jean’s again. ‘I don’t want to think about it—’

‘They weren’t going to kill me,’ Jean whispered. ‘Not yet, at least…’ His eyes fell to his hands, fingers fumbling with Marco’s.

Marco leaned forward to press his forehead to Jean’s. Their noses nudged together, shaky breaths mingling between them. ‘I was so scared that I would be too late—’ He pressed back the quiver in his voice, forcing himself not to let any more frightened tears fall.

Jean nudged closer weakly, eyes falling as he bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered when he found Marco’s eyes again. ‘The things I said…’ He swallowed with a pained grimace, his neck still hurting. ‘I—I didn’t mean it. I was unfair to you. I should never have said that, or even thought it...’

‘You were right, though,’ Marco mumbled back. ‘I’m just relieved I got here in time.’ He paused, thinking back to earlier. They could have spent all evening in each other's’ arms, hidden away from the world. But instead he’d caused this, by setting up a meeting without Jean’s knowledge. ‘I shouldn’t have brought them here like that,’ he said, leaning back to look Jean in the eyes when apologising. ‘It was wrong of me. I guess I thought…’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what I thought. I just needed you to believe them for stupid reasons. I’m so sorry.’

Jean was silent, eyes distant as his mind turned over everything. He wetted his lips, biting down. ‘What is Krista doing here?’ he asked finally.

‘She wanted to see your mother,’ Marco replied. ‘I...I think they know each other.’

He worried for a second what Jean’s reaction would be to those words. But Jean’s brows only furrowed deeper in question as he glanced aside, still chewing on his lower lip in thought. ‘I just want us to sleep,’ he said then, squeezing Marco’s wrist, his expression falling with a sigh.

Marco nodded with lips pressed tight, then rose to help Jean up on his feet. Jean swayed, his legs shaking a little beneath his own weight. ‘Let’s get these clothes off and you to bed,’ Marco said and steadied his arm around Jean’s back, the other taking his hand.

It was dark when they were woken up by Petra a few hours later, and the sun still struggled to rise when they made their way through the corridors towards the Council meeting. Marco had never been in the grand hall before, and even with all the anxiety the night had caused, the sight of it stole away his breath for a moment. He stared up at the arched ceiling and the paintings covering it, wondering what magic had been used to hold the artist in the air for so long, and with such beautiful results. Awed and gaping, he held onto Jean’s arm tighter.

Uncertain whether he was supposed to step away from Jean now or not, he remained by his side; so much was already turned upside-down — what did one more thing matter? Besides, Jean needed someone close. It was clear in the way he gripped Marco’s hand in return, leaning into his side even as his eyes searched over the gathered people. And the duchess wasn't likely to give him that presence, so Marco might as well do it. He wouldn't step away unless he was ordered to. Maybe not even then.

Jean had told him about the Council before; it was an assembly of masters and high priests and priestesses of the court, as well as representants of lesser noble families from the towns belonging to the duchy of Trost. The people around the long table this morning weren’t even half of the number Marco had expected; there was a nervous energy hanging over them, and Marco could see on their faces he was far from the only one confused by the absence of so many usual members.

Lady Kirschtein reached for Jean’s free arm as he sat down by her side; she squeezed his wrist and tilted her face a bit closer, the gesture almost unnoticeable. ‘There will be a lot of new information for you in this meeting,’ she said, voice low. ‘It will frustrate you, I understand, but it is important we hold the meeting now without delay. I ask you not to make a scene.’

Jean frowned at her, opening his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him by turning to Captain Zacharias who had come up on her other side. Her hand on his was gone; his fingers twitched as if missing the contact, before he hid the arm under the table, and looked to Marco for answers. Marco wasn’t sure what to say, and either case, there was no time for him to tell Jean what he knew. He glanced at Historia at the other end of the table, finding her watching them in return. When he faced towards Jean again, the crease between Jean’s brows had deepened, his gaze shifting from her to Marco in bothered question. Marco squeezed his hand, offering a reassuring smile. But Jean noticed it wavering.

‘You all know what happened last night,’ Lady Kirschtein began, looking at each of them as she spoke. ‘There are traitors hiding among us. Spies of our enemies. I cannot say for sure that none is present now, but I hope the trust I put in you today will be repaid by loyalty. You all need to know what is going on, and what will happen next, whatever that may be, concerns all of us.’

‘Pardon me, Your Highness,’ interrupted one of the high priests, ‘I don’t think I speak only for myself when I say I really don’t feel comfortable talking about this with a _witch_ present.’

Jean’s fingers tightened around Marco’s, his eyes burning in anger. But the defending words did not come from him.

‘Your lord’s life was saved by this witch, Father Nick,’ Lady Kirschtein said, then added, ‘Twice,’ with a glance at them before staring down the nobles again. ‘He’ll stay by his side.’

Marco sensed the eyes on him, some holding poison, others too baffled by the idea to show any hatred. Or maybe not all of them were as convinced of his crimes as those shouting the loudest.

‘Now, to move on to what ought to be our first concern. It is about the death of our late Lord Kirschtein, Prince Alden and Prince Erick.’ Focus shifted back to Lady Kirschtein, heads raised in surprise and attention. ‘Up until this point we’ve all been certain of who committed the crime. But the truth is that the Rebels did not kill them.’

Jean’s fingers tightened around Marco’s, his lips pressed tightly shut.

‘Then who did?’ asked one of the nobles from the murmur spreading around the hall.

Lady Kirschtein hesitated for a moment too long, and the answer came instead from Historia sitting across from them. ‘The king.’

Silence fell heavy after that.

Jean stared from Historia to his mother. ‘ _What_?’ His voice barely worked, the word not much more than a croaking sound in his throat. ‘Why?’

But Lady Kirschtein didn't reply. Her gaze was scanning the gathered Council, their questioning frowns and uncomfortable postures. Then she looked to Historia again, her own face as blank as usual. ‘I think first of all,’ she said, ‘everyone needs to know who you are.’

Historia nodded. She rose from her seat to make sure everyone could see her, then after a deep breath she began her story with her name. She told them about her mother; Crown Princess Elmira born in secret and captivity after her father's death and uncle’s claim of the throne. She was kept alive because of her magic; the king wanted to harbour it, reap it, but had yet to figure out how to. Meanwhile he spread the new laws across the country, feeding the already existing discomfort for the unknown by banning witchcraft and making it punishable by death. Only the most loyal were granted freedom to explore the power; everyone else were threats and enemies who had to be taken out.

Elmira was in her twenties when she was finally rescued from the capital; she was hidden away from the king’s searching eyes, sheltered in shadows by nobles still loyal to her claim, until weakness and sickness took her too soon.

The hall was silent as Historia spoke; expressions varied between shocked to unbelieving, but no one interrupted. Marco watched Jean’s pale face; the short, slow breaths shivering over his lips as he struggled to stay calm. To grasp all of this. Marco hadn’t heard any details before now, but from the little Historia had shared he’d been able to guess the bigger picture. Still, hearing her words now made the cold stone in his stomach grow, the unease clawing at his insides.

‘I was born in Karanes,’ Historia said, finding Jean’s eyes across the table. Marco knew Karanes had been the city of Jean’s paternal family — the castle his father had grown up in — until his uncle had died a few years ago and the Crown had installed a new duke. ‘Your uncle protected me for years,’ she continued. ‘It was not illness that killed him in the end; the king found out the truth. He believed your father was in on the secret and now hid me here, or might aid me against him.’

Quiet tension shifted over the table; many had things to say, but something made them hold back their words. Their eyes were on Historia, and moved from her to Lady Kirschtein and Jean at the other end; one’s expression unchanged, the other’s a fragile wall trying to hide the twisting emotions behind it.

When Jean spoke, the hall was so silent everyone would have heard him clearly even if he had whispered the words. His burning eyes were directed at his mother, the intense focus in them erasing everything else in the hall. ‘You knew about this?’

Lady Kirschtein didn’t meet his gaze. She looked straight ahead, chin held high, as if this conversation was like any other the Council had discussed over the years. ‘I’ve always known,’ she said, voice calm. ‘This is why they were killed, and why you were attacked last night. Both times I received a letter…’ She gave the parchments before her a light push in Jean’s direction, the wrinkled and torn corners the only sign of her own breaking nerves. ‘Warnings not to meddle with certain traitors.’ She looked at Historia then, a flash of undefined emotion glimmering in the corners of her eyes. ‘They must have seen you meet Historia yesterday and assumed that was what you were doing…’

Ice-cold claws tightened around Marco’s throat; Lady Kirschtein’s voice faded into the background, her last words lost to the loud thrum in his head. He stared at the papers and then at Jean; the hand that had held Marco’s not long ago balled into a fist, his own eyes only glancing at the letters before facing his mother again.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he demanded, voice rising, but still sounding so far away. The red line down his neck stood out against his white skin, like a blaring light in the dark. It _was_ his fault. ‘You let me believe innocent people were behind it—’

‘Jean.’ Lady Kirschtein’s voice was sharp, her stare pointed. Her straight posture unchanged. ‘This is between you and me. We’ll talk later.’

Marco was the one who brought Historia to him. He arranged the meeting that led to Jean’s blood being spilled in his own chambers. They had murdered Jean’s father and brothers just for suspecting a connection to Historia; they might as well have had Jean’s throat slit properly too, and Marco would have been the cause of it.

_His fault._

Jean sat quiet again, fingers clenching and opening on the table before him. His mouth was pressed shut, brows drawn tight and eyes staring hard at his hands, refusing to meet any looks from others. Emotions oozed from him, but he fought his best to lock them away. Marco swallowed around the tight grip of his throat, too shaken to reach for him.

‘So what happens now?’ one of the nobles asked, her focus set on Historia. Others followed her gaze, all their own questions building behind the tense silence, the air ready to explode like the windows in Jean’s chambers.

‘He’s an usurper sitting on my throne,’ Historia said. Her voice was matter-of-factly despite the heaviness hanging over the gathered people, and she held any gaze that met hers, unflinching. ‘I intend to take it back.’


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter! It was actually pretty much done when I posted the previous one, but tbh I've been feeling very discouraged because of the lack of responses (thank you to the one person who read and commented <3 it meant a lot!) and that's why I didn't post this when I said I would. I'm feeling more excited now, and I hope others will be too. If you read and enjoy, please let me know — it will make my day, and encourage me to work and post the next chapter faster! :')
> 
> My [tumblr](http://emelianss.tumblr.com) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/emelianss).

****The silence hung heavy between them, filling in every crevice between shadow and light. Jean wasn’t sure if he’d heard anything more of the discussion after Historia’s intention had been made clear; it had been wild, with much emotions expressed even from those who normally had no position to speak their mind so openly on politics. But his mother must have allowed it — and Jean himself hadn’t done anything to shush it down either. He didn’t know what to think. He was lost in the chaos, and now in the silence, hoping Marco would help him find the way. But Marco hadn’t said anything either.

Jean swallowed, glancing in his direction. Marco’s face was closed, lips pressed together, and brow furrowed in thought, eyes directed at the floor but seeing something else entirely. They’d been sitting in the chamber for a while already, so long the candles had almost burned down. Jean on the edge of the bed and Marco on a chair opposite from him. He wasn’t sure why Marco hadn’t sat down beside him instead, and now the distance felt enormous.

‘Well, this day really turned things upside down,’ Jean said, but his short laugh came out shaky and unamused. He grimaced from his strained neck; the cut might be healed but talking and moving still caused pain, and he did his best not to draw Marco’s attention to it.

Marco’s eyes shifted somewhat, but he didn’t look up. Jean fumbled with his hands, fingers sliding over the scar on his arm. ‘I can’t believe Mother allowed her to say such a thing,’ he said. ‘If the wrong person would’ve heard—’

‘She’s the true queen,’ Marco said suddenly. Jean’s eyes snapped back to meet his, but Marco’s expression was still absent and pondering. ‘It’s her birthright that was taken from her. What she said is true, and we… we should stand with her.’

Jean inhaled through his nose, forcing the air down into his lungs. ‘Marco,’ he said, voice low, ‘do you understand what you’re saying?’

‘Of course I do.’ Marco’s gaze was stern, slight hurt at the question flashing by in them. ‘And I’ll say it again. The man you call king is the traitor; he has stolen the crown and murdered in its name, destroying lives of hundreds. Thousands! If it weren’t for his laws, my father might still be alive. And so would yours, and your brothers. He right out had your family killed, Jean.’

‘I _know_.’ Jean raked a hand through his hair, groaning in frustration. ‘But… going against him would mean splitting the kingdom in a civil war. Don't you realise how many people will die? And for what?’ He paused, the phantom sting of the blade sharp against his skin. He tried to swallow the feeling. ’How are we supposed to win when they’re able to get inside the castle here whenever they want to?It's suicide.’

Marco said nothing, but held Jean’s gaze.

‘We can have it good, Marco. A good life. You and me—’

‘When?’ He probably didn’t mean to snap, but it came out that way anyway. He flinched at his own tone, though he wouldn’t let it stop him. ‘The Vale, 12 years from now?’ He shook his head. ‘I can't sit back and wait for something that might never happen. I—I know I said I would but… this changes things…’

‘We don't have to wait.’ Jean rose from the bedside to reach for Marco’s hands. ‘You can be with me right here; I'll never marry, and Mother already knows anyway. I'm not the first lord with a lover, nor will I be the last.’

Marco sighed, lips a tight line. ‘As long as the laws remain the same I have no right to live.’

‘I'll change the laws. Slowly.’

‘You can't. It's The King’s Laws, Jean. You know that.’

‘Then to hell with the laws! I'm the ruler here and if I choose not to see, then there will be no executions.’

‘People won't approve. And whatever you do there will always be someone at court who knows what I am and doesn't like it. A secret like that can't be kept.’ Marco watched Jean for a moment in silence, fingers entwining and squeezing, before continuing. ‘Just look at what happened here last night. It’s not safe, and never will be. What will you do when the king finds out that the lord of Trost isn't doing his duty?’ He rose as he said it, holding Jean’s gaze until Jean looked away. ‘That he's keeping one of the cursed in his bed?’

Jean didn't reply. He glared to the side, focusing on the expressionless face of a stone bust to avoid seeing what Marco meant. The gold-coated surface of the statue gleamed in the candlelight, the woman’s eyes empty.

‘What will you do when they come here, a high priest or the king himself, and orders you to execute me to prove your loyalty?’

Marco’s voice was quiet but steady, the unwavering truth of the situation holding him still while it lit fire inside Jean’s chest.

‘That never has to happen!’ he retorted and withdrew his hands from Marco’s grip, feeling much like a fussing child unwilling to see the points made by his elders.

‘It will happen sooner or later and you know it as well as I do,’ Marco said, letting Jean widen the space between them with only a twitch of his eyes showing his reluctance. ‘And then you will either have me killed or start a war. If the latter—’

‘ _If?’_ Jean snapped, angry tears pooling in his eyes. ‘I'll _never_ have you killed, Marco! How can you even imply such a thing?’

‘Then you will have a war on his terms, with him ready and already on your doorstep. You'll stand alone, no allies anywhere near to rise with you. I don't have much faith in winning that.’

Jean's cheeks burned in anger and frustration, his hands balling into fists, fingers biting his palms, and knuckles whitening. Marco reached for them.

‘And even if we get a good life together,’ he said, catching Jean’s eyes, ‘without troubles and threats and only good things until we're both old and grey... others won't. As long as he rules with these laws, innocent people will die because of who they are. I can't be happy knowing that I could have fought for change but didn't. I can't do it.'

 _‘Please_ , Marco.’ He wasn’t sure what he pleaded for; Marco to reconsider, to give him space, to hold him closer. ‘There's no going back once we have voiced our support for her. It’ll change everything.’

‘I know. And if something happens to you,’ Marco went on, his voice wavering slightly. He paused, eyes flickering over Jean’s neck, his fingers twitching to touch the scar but holding back. ‘If I lose you,’ he finally got out, meeting Jean’s eyes again, his own blank. ‘I’ll never forgive myself. B-but this is not a time to be selfish. You know that too.’

Jean pushed away again. Not because he didn’t want Marco close — he craved to be held and especially after tonight he was frightened of being left alone. But all of this was too much, too grand, too dangerous. They expected him to make a decision that wouldn’t just reshape his own future, but everyone’s in Trost and, sooner or later, the rest of the kingdom. Not a single part of him was ready for such responsibility.

He didn’t realise he was crying until Marco took his face in gentle hands and brushed away the tears with the pads of his thumbs. He let himself be pulled back into the embrace, clinging to Marco with more desperation than he wanted to admit. ‘No more of this today. I’m sorry,’ Marco mumbled, more whispered words ghosting over Jean’s cheek as Marco held him close, calming the trembles running through his body.

The following weeks a tension hung over the castle. Rumours and gossip were whispered from one mouth to the next, hushed behind covering hands, visible in staring eyes. It was hard to tell how much people knew, and with his own head so filled with thoughts of war, Jean was often convinced the news had spread. But things were far too calm for that. They watched him not in anticipation of a decision, but imagining him being attacked in his rooms, wondering how much of it was true.

Jean had confronted his mother about the secrets and lies, and while she apologised and claimed she didn’t want to treat him like a child, he was still _hers_ and even more so the only one she had left. ‘I feared the position the truth would put you in,’ she said. ‘I did not wish to see you at the head of an army. Not so young.’

Jean had as little wish as her to go to war in any form, least of all _leading_ it. But her treatment of him only served to make the other nobles question his age too. ‘You either find another lord and protect me, or you respect that I am your equal,’ Jean sighed, too weary about the situation to keep his anger flaring. ‘You can’t have both.’

‘I know,’ she said.

The problem with this understanding passing between them was that she would not make his decision for him. He was younger and his life would be more affected by the outcome. He had to decide, she said. He had to consider everything, just like any others of the lords and nobles, and once he knew where he stood on the matter, they would discuss with the others.

There were those who tried to confront him about it, sway him this way and that. Most were reluctant, scared. They benefited from the ways things were now — why should they risk their lives to change it?

But there was honour too. A king who kills his family, who uses black magic to threaten and murder the nobles — it was not the kind of ruler they wanted. Not the kind of kingdom they prided themselves in being part of. And they had respected Jean’s father, many of them forever loyal since the war they had faced together in their youth. They wanted justice — and revenge.

Historia let Jean be without pushing for a quicker decision. She’d waited years — what did another one matter in the grand scheme of things? But he saw her with Marco sometimes, overheard her speaking of rebels who would come north and fight with her. Saw the expression on Marco’s face when she told him about the peace and magic hidden away in the mountain caves of the south. He longed for it. Longed for a place where he wasn’t shunned and spit at for being what he was. How could Jean even consider snatching such a future away from him?

_This is not a time to be selfish._

He tried not to be. He tried to think of everyone affected, both by a war and by this king’s continued rule. He hid in the crowds outside the castle, sheltered by a cheaper cloak not to wake suspicion. He watched the people move around him, unknowing of who he was. He saw the poor the illness hadn't taken three years ago, and those who had fallen down since then.

On the castle grounds stood the remains of the last time a witch had been executed; the platform was nearly hidden in the snow, the black wood stark against the white, seemingly colder still than the ice surrounding it. After the deaths of the lord and princes, there had been a furious hunt through the city, followed by a series of burnings Jean had yet not been able to stop. There hadn’t been many, but each one was one too much. Knowing what his mother had left unsaid before, Jean felt even sicker than he had done back then.

Now he stared at the platform, imagining all the fires that had been lit, how many wronged people had been murdered by the flames in the name of the king. He had seen enough of them for his inner eye to picture it perfectly, his ears hearing the screams, his eyes stinging from the smoke, his nose filled with the stench of burning wood and flesh.

It wasn't hard to think further too. Wasn't hard at all to imagine what Marco had said; even if Jean refused to convict him, the king would have it done anyway. No doubt forcing Jean to watch as they executed the man he loved.

‘Shadis,’ he greeted without looking at the old man standing behind him.

‘My lord,’ came the reply.

Snow howled through him and Jean hugged himself tighter. So much had changed since that day when he learned Marco’s name. It felt like a different life altogether. ‘How do we deal with things such as these?’ he asked, part of him hoping the old captain would have a last harsh rebuke about their ways lingering from Jean’s adolescent years. What he got instead was a weary sigh.

‘I’m afraid I can't say, my lord.’

But Jean didn’t need anyone else to tell him. He knew. He just had to be brave enough to accept it.

*

‘Historia taking a leading position over Trost comes with certain complications,’ Lady Kirschtein said. ‘There must always be a Kirschtein on the seat; while she has agreed to make Farlan and Isabel her heirs when she won't have any children of her own, one generation would be skipped.’

‘Both you and me are still here.’

‘Below her, yes. That cannot be.’

Jean sighed, rolling his eyes. ‘You really think harm will come to anyone because this tradition is broken?’ he asked, meeting her stare with his own disbelief. ‘With a civil war at our feet I’m pretty sure the Gods can forgive a few years of change.’

His mother shifted on her chair before rising. They were in her chambers, once shared with the duke but now hers alone. Jean had barely been in there at all growing up; it wasn't his place then, and still wasn't. He only came when she sent for him, to talk to him in private. It made the walls seem like those of a cage, there to hold in the whispered secrets not meant for other ears. He was used to secrets, of course. With Marco he’d kept them for years. But those steamed from love; here they twisted around politics, trying to evaluate who they could trust — and who they couldn't. The memory of the blade against his throat still stung fresh, the gnawing unease in his stomach increasing whenever they hid here to talk.

‘It’s not only the Gods, Jean,’ she was saying now as she took the steps separating them. ‘The arrangement is fragile like this; the nobility needs reassurance, certainty, if they are to rise with us—’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I think you know.’

Jean couldn’t stop the laughter from escaping, but it was without humour. Dry and harsh, mocking the mere idea. It was ridiculous. ‘Historia will never agree to that.’

‘She suggested it.’

A beat of silence fell between them, followed by another. Jean blinked, his head struggling to make sense of Historia’s thinking. ‘What?’ he finally said. His mother’s eyes were stern, understanding but determined. This had already been discussed, decided, and the only part left was for him to agree. He shook his head, backing away, turned towards the door. ‘No. No, I won't do it.’

‘Jean…’

‘No!’ He swatted away her outstretched hand, pointing his own finger in her face. ‘You can't make me; you made me your equal. You can't decide this—’

‘I’m not.’ She wasn't yelling, never did. But her voice was still loud, still demanding to be listened to. ‘I’m trying to make you see sense. You agreed to stand with her; now you must take the consequences of that choice.’

‘But I… I _can't_.’ Jean heard it himself, how weak his voice sounded, how unconvincing his words were. He knew he had no acceptable excuse; cold ate away in his chest as the far away future with Marco in the Vale slipped from his fingers, the thin treads attached snapping, dark void swallowing any chance that had remained. He could barely breathe. ‘I promised—’

‘You should have known better than to promise anything like that. He’s a clever boy,’ Lady Kirschtein added after some thought. ‘He’ll understand.’

It was an unusually warm winter day, the watery snow melting from the windows, almost mocking in the way the ice stars lost their shape as soon as they landed. Jean’s eyes followed the droplets sliding down the glass as Historia sat beside him by the table, telling him how this wouldn’t change anything between him and Marco.

But Jean knew that wasn’t true. He knew what marriage meant to Marco. He knew how this would affect him before he saw the tears Marco tried to hide as he excused himself from their conversation, leaving Jean alone on the bedside while he hid away to accept the news on his own.

‘We’re not in an actual relationship,’ Historia said.

Jean tore his eyes from the water, studying the profile of her face. She was beautiful and strong and powerful, and he wanted none of it.

‘Of course not,’ he replied, not even bothering to try concealing the bitterness from his voice. ‘We’ll just be married.’

Historia gave him a steady gaze, blue eyes holding none of the innocence poets spoke of. ‘Purely political,’ she said. ‘I’ll never be your wife in anything else than on a document, as little as you will be my husband. Both our love and fidelity lie with others, and that will never change.’

Jean looked back at her for a long while; with Marco he repeated her words, but they felt empty even as he said them.

‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ he said, the burden heavy in his chest. ‘You know I don’t want her. It’s only a political arrangement.’

Marco nodded, but he didn’t meet Jean’s eyes; he stared at the floor, shoulders tense under the touch of Jean’s hand, lips pressed into a thin, pale line; and Jean knew that no matter how he phrased it, or how well Marco hid it, it’d still hurt him, deep down. Jean had grown up with marriage associated with politics. But to Marco it meant love like in the songs and fairy tales, two names carved into stone, belonging together, a proof for generations to come. He wasn’t naive; he’d always known a marriage between them was impossible, and whenever Jean got mad about their situation, Marco was always ready with his unwavering sense. Jean had admired him for it, but also watched with suspicion, wondering how he accepted their situation so easily.

Guess the facade only could hold so long before it cracked.

Jean sighed. He wanted nothing more than to console Marco, to make him feel better. But there was nothing he could say that would fix this; meaningless or not, his name would be carved alongside another’s, and in the future when people looked back at their history, Marco’s name and existence would be long since erased from Jean’s life. Not a word, not a sign. Only forgotten.

‘I… I need to go.’ Marco pushed up from the bed, his first steps unsteady before he found his balance. Shifting away from Jean’s hand, moving around him with more distance between them than necessary.

‘Marco…’

‘I know, it’s all right.’ The reply was too quick, too wavering. He swallowed, swaying a little where he stood, as if forcing himself to stand still when all he wanted was to run. His eyes only glanced back at Jean before they swept over the floor again, searching for the door. ‘I just… I just need a moment to.... Okay?’

‘I love you. Always. No matter what.’

Marco nodded again, still avoiding Jean’s gaze; in the faint light of the candles, Jean saw the tears pooling in his eyes, despite his attempt to hide it. ‘I love you too,’ he mumbled. Then he was gone.

* * *

The hilt of the sword wasn’t unfamiliar in his hand, but still strange. The leatherwork was fine and detailed, the blade beautifully crafted. It was made for nobles; Marco was far from any title earning him such a weapon, but he’d grown up surrounded by their kind. Learned the basics of their art, both in creation and use. His father said one had to know how to wield it to know one’s work was well-made, and so he taught Marco what he knew, as well as his sister when her help was needed in the smithy.

Once upon a time, Marco had dreamt about being a knight. Back when he was little and his father still had the good reputation his work deserved, when skilled swordsmen came more often than not to commission him. He imagined the wide, green plains of the southern parts of the kingdom, the glistening castle of the capital. The proud king seated on his throne wearing his golden crown, worth fighting for.

And then the yet untameable fire inside him had burned those fantasies to ashes.

Holding the sword now, a strange familiar taste echoed through his system. The songs and tales of heroes that shaped his naive trust in duty and honour had long ago dimmed down, fear of the rulers shaking that childish admiration from his bones. And yet, a twinge of it ghosted over his chest, whispered along his tattoos. The king he’d dreamt of ten years ago may not have been the leader his heart sighed for; he never even was the truthful one.

But now another had risen; honourable and good, speaking to the hearts of brave, just men and women to answer her call. She might be what he’d waited for as a child.

But he was a child no longer; he had not been raised a knight. And the queen he vowed to serve was taking the love of his life away from him. That had never been part of his childhood games.

Bitterness, and guilt for feeling it, twisted around that small, kindling fire, smothering it. Life was not like the songs.

He focused on the sword again, making it an extension of his arm; the magic vibrating in his fingers reached for the leather and steel beyond. Hanji had explained how to not only charge a tool but wield it too, have it pulsate with magic the same way his veins did. He repeated the instructions to himself, breathing in and out of his nose while he concentrated.

The witch had appeared from nowhere one day, approaching Marco without explanation as if they hadn't been gone for almost a year. But thanks to Historia, he knew they’d been with the Rebels. After the passing of midwinter, when light slowly returned again, groups of people found their way to Trost through the bitter cold, a few at a time. And so there was Hanji, returned in company of masters in other magical practices. Among them were those with knowledge to teach Marco more about combat as well as healing, something he’d wished for years. Hanji knew how to heal and had been a wonderful teacher, but it wasn't their speciality, and they’d expressed many times over what a shame it was they didn't have the means to help Marco grow into his full potential. So now they were eager to introduce him to true healers; and Marco in his turn was, despite everything else, filled with the same curious excitement he’d felt the first months with Hanji.

He swung the sword, eyes so set on the movement of the blade and magic he didn't hear anyone come up behind him. When he swung around the steel met another, and his eyes found Jean’s. Neither of them spoke; they’d never had reason before to practice sword fighting together, though sometimes when hidden away in the woods during summer they chased each other around with sticks, laughing as they tumbled through the grass.

Neither was laughing now. But a silent understanding passed between them. They moved around each other slowly, a well-calculated dance rather than fiery fight. Jean was the far more skilled swordsman, but they weren’t holding back only because of that; if they moved too fast Marco wasn’t sure he could hold the magic. He didn’t want to shoot Jean with a wave of uncontrolled energy.

Eventually they ended up face to face, only the crossing blades between them. Jean’s eyes flickered, his lips parting, words untold fluttering in the air between them, afraid of being cut. Marco stepped back and lowered his sword. They were the only ones in the small hall, and no one passed by the high windows facing a sheltered part of the yard. He could grab Jean by the front of his tunic and crush his lips against his, cling to him desperately. But it still hurt, and instead he turned away.

‘I didn’t imagine you’d be out there too,’ Jean said, hesitation lingering behind his words. He didn’t have to clarify what he meant for Marco to get it.

Marco raised an eyebrow at him. ‘You expected me to be your weeping lover gazing longingly towards the horizon, waiting for you to return?’

Jean’s uncertain gaze fell, brows drawn tight. ‘No, of course not. I guess I just… thought of you in the camp. Healing those who are wounded.’

‘I can do both.’

‘Not if you’re the wounded one.’ He flinched as if Marco had snapped at him, before Marco had even opened his mouth. ‘I—I’m sorry. I don’t mean to invalidate your right to fight. I’m just worried.’

A sting of guilt pierced Marco’s chest. None of this was Jean’s fault. He didn’t deserve this strange cold between them. Marco hadn’t meant for it; the wall had appeared by itself, and he didn’t have the energy to climb it. But that left Jean standing alone on top, swaying as he considered whether he dared to jump — and if Marco wanted him to.

‘How do you think I feel?’ Marco asked, his voice softer. ‘I persuaded you to this. I’m terrified.’

Jean shook his head. ‘This isn't because of you,’ he said. ‘Not only you, at least. You said it first, when I didn’t want to listen. But… I know it’s the right thing to do.’ He held Marco’s gaze, his eyes reflecting all the sleepless nights he’d spent wondering what his choice would lead to. ‘I know.’

Marco wanted to reach for him then; they’d stayed distant the past weeks, and Marco knew it was because of him more than a need to hide from prying eyes. He saw it in Jean’s longing, uncertain expression, and how he leaned closer but was afraid to push.

He found Jean’s hand; Jean almost withdrew in surprise, as if he worried it had been an accident. His gaze flickered up to Marco, body relaxing when their eyes met. Marco brushed his thumb over Jean’s knuckles; Jean linked their fingers with a gentle squeeze in response.

Approaching footsteps pulled them apart again. It was a long hall with no door separating it from the corridor leading to it, and so it didn’t take long before the features of the short shape walking towards them was possible to make out. They stayed with a distance between them, surprised. Marco glanced to Jean; his mouth was agape, and eyes blinked in disbelief.

‘Never thought I’d be back in this shitty castle,’ Levi muttered, loud enough for them to hear. He slowed down somewhat but did not stop to greet them, and his eyes shifted over them with the same disinterest as ever. ‘But I guess if I have to pick between shit and more shit—’

‘Levi,’ Jean exhaled, reaching out without touching the old fencing master when he was about to pass by; Levi halted, glancing at Marco behind Jean before meeting Jean’s stare. Bored, impatient. He wanted to make sure they knew he was only passing through the hall to somewhere else, and it was only a misfortune they’d happened to be here too. It wasn’t like he’d come looking for Jean.

But even Marco knew this hall and corridor didn’t lead to anywhere important. There was no one at the other end for him to meet — definitely no one of such importance as his goal-fixed stride deserved. Levi must know they understood this, but he kept the act up anyway.

‘I hear you’ve become a leader of a rebellion,’ he said, as if it wasn’t he himself who’d talked so well of Jean to Historia. ‘Marrying a queen. Feels like yesterday you didn’t think you’d have to marry at all.’ His eyes met Marco’s for a short moment, well aware how his words must hurt. Marco looked away; Levi turned back to Jean. ‘I’m not sure if I’m surprised or not.’

Jean’s gaze fell, his shoulders sagging. ‘I… I don’t know what I’m doing.’

‘Welcome to adulthood,’ Levi snapped back. ‘No one knows what they’re doing. But since they all expect you to, you better learn to hide that insecurity fast.’

Jean snorted an unamused laugh, shaking his head. ‘Thank you for such encouraging words, master Levi,’ he said. ‘I feel much better now.’

‘If you want the truth sugar-coated you shouldn’t turn to me, brat. A lot has changed, but that remains the same.’

Levi turned to continue his march, but halted again when Jean said, ‘It’s good to have you back.’ He only scoffed in reply, though a small hint of a smile curled in the corner of his lips as he again turned away.

Silence lingered between them. Jean turned back towards Marco, his eyes searching, reaching towards him. Marco gave a tight smile in reply, his own gaze falling back to the sword along his leg. ‘I should get back to practising,’ he said, the dismissal wedged between the lines, bitter on his tongue even in its silence.

He wanted Jean to stay. He wanted to hold him tight and beg him not to get married, but he knew that was something he could not ask for. And right now, neither was possible without the other, so he had to step away. He had to.

Jean nodded, smiling too even as the light in his eyes dimmed down. ‘Of course.’ He hesitated for a moment before he stepped closer, neck bent, fingers ghosting over Marco’s arm. It would be so easy to lean forward a little to kiss his cheek; so easy, and so difficult. Jean sighed, forcing his hand away from Marco. ‘I’ll see you later, okay?’ he said, looking into Marco’s eyes again.

Marco nodded silently, and then Jean stepped away, leaving him alone in the dimness of the empty hall.

*

‘Funny isn't it?’ Ymir said, her face twisted in a grim grin. She gave Marco a hard look before she turned back towards the darkening sky. ‘Two simple words, and you become “the other”. Just like that.’

They sat far apart with the grand gate between them and the bleak castle garden spread before them. Soon it would bloom in spring, but yet it was a miserable sight, grey and muddy snow lingering in patches over the brown grass.

Marco said nothing. He didn't trust his voice to bear any words even if he found them. So he remained silent, swallowed, fighting to keep back the tears pooling in his eyes. Ymir's glance prodded at his side again but he looked away, not willing to let her see how deeply those words stung him.

It didn't matter she felt the same.

 _It won't stay this way,_ he wanted to believe. _Once the war is over_ _—_

 _By the Gods, how naive can you be?_ The phantom of Ymir's voice was so clear in his head she might as well have spoken out loud. But the silence still stretched between them, and neither knew how to speak with their mind. He didn't need her to say it for real to know that she would. Didn't need to be told by someone else to know it was true.

Things would never be that simple.

’Don't you trust her?’ Marco had asked Ymir when she had voiced her displeasure with the whole arrangement.

'I trust her to do what she thinks has to be done. That has nothing to do with me.’

The music played on inside; the feast might be the last party many of them had to savour in a long time. Marco sat quiet on the bench, back straight against the wall. He stared at the snow falling in the chill air, wet flakes only adding to the already soggy ground. He thought of Jean, in that gorgeous tunic and cloak in his family and city’s dark colours, embroidered with golden details to match him to Historia’s elegant attire, and the rings they exchanged for everyone to see.

How strange it was to watch all those happy faces celebrating his heart torn in half. He had always been hidden in the crowds of the common people, and it was nothing unusual that the vast majority of those in the hall and outside it had no idea who he was or that he existed at all. And yet, he’d never felt so exposed, and so invisible at the same time. Never been so far away from the person within these walls who mattered the most.

Ymir sat quiet now, shuddering in the chill wind. She came from warmer climates, and was no doubt as eager for spring as any reasonable person would be. But Marco held tightly of the fleeing winter, longed for the faraway days when his biggest concern was the long wait for Jean to have time to sneak out again. He closed his eyes and imagined the white, endless fields, tree branches hanging down heavy with their seasonal blanket. The moonlight and stars twinkling in the black sky; the soft snowfalls and sweet kisses underneath.

Loud cheering from the party broke through his fantasies, and Marco opened his eyes again. Before him rain had replaced the sleet, grey and rough, there to wash the remaining snow away.

* * *

The day had passed in a haze. Jean felt distanced from all of it, as if preparations and ceremony was a dream and he watched it all take place as a silent observer, with no part to play himself. At some point he’d spotted Marco in the crowd, and then his mind was back in his own body, his soul burning — but the next moment Marco was gone, and so was whatever attached Jean to himself.

Historia was beautiful. She smiled wide and unafraid, her mask so practised it shone and spread, and Jean could catch some of its light as well. He didn’t know how convincing his own easy expression was, but it seemed enough. He wondered if Marco watched him; if he saw through it; if it hurt him more.

The thought festered in Jean’s chest.

Then there it was. A quick brush of lips, the first and only kiss they would ever share. Wrong. It was all wrong, dead and cold, taste unpleasant, of lies and heartbreak.

Historia didn’t smile when they parted, and Jean didn’t watch her to see when she forced it back on her face.

Later she stood in their supposed chambers, her fingers stiff and struggling to undo the lacing of her dress. Her eyes were blank, her body bending under the weight of the long day. ‘If you think this is easy for me,’ she said, her voice wavering. She didn’t continue the sentence; she didn’t have to.

Jean left, both of them unwilling to stay in each other’s presence any longer.

It was dark when he opened the door to the small chamber Marco had been given, sliding inside as quietly as he could. The thin light from the moon shimmered along the edges of Marco’s otherwise dark form, silent and unmoving on the edge of the bed with his back towards the door. Jean sat down beside him, the knot in his throat twisting when he saw the glimmering tear tracks on Marco’s cheeks.

‘What are you doing here?’ Marco asked finally, still staring at the window. His voice was small and cold, shivering. ‘Shouldn’t you be with your bride?’

Jean bit into his lower lip, not sure what to say. Was this how it would be now? Was Marco to withdraw to save himself? They’d been so distant from each other the past weeks, and he couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘Marco...’ he started, but when he placed his hand on Marco’s shoulder, his whole form moved away. Jean’s heart sank.

The harsh mask cracked a moment later and Marco put his head into his hands with a wavering sob. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, and when Jean’s hand brushed over his shoulders again, he leaned into the touch. ‘I’m sorry...’

‘Me too,’ Jean whispered back, resting his forehead to the side of Marco’s. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I never wanted this. You know that.’

‘I know.’

‘I love you. I love _you._ ’

‘I—I know.’

‘Always. I’ll always love you.’ Jean kissed Marco’s cheek, then his lips when Marco turned towards him, tasting the salt and hating himself for the pain he caused him.

Marco sighed and forced out a small smile as he looked up at Jean. ‘You were very handsome today,’ he mumbled, running his fingers over the golden details in Jean’s vest. ‘I mean, you are every day but... the wedding clothes are... really nice...’

Jean took his hand gently, pressing his lips to the knuckles. ‘Let’s forget,’ he said, voice low. ‘Let’s forget what happened today and pretend it’s us.’

Marco’s wet lashes fluttered, his gaze set on their intertwined fingers. The ring glimmering on one of Jean’s. A heavy sigh shivered through him, and when he closed his eyes, new tears fell. He shook his head. ‘I can’t… I—’ He let Jean steer his face up with a gentle hand under his jaw, meeting his eyes without hiding the pain in his own. ‘I wanted to beg you not to go through with it, a-and I know… that wouldn’t have been fair. I know this doesn’t have to change things… and I know it shouldn’t— it shouldn’t matter _this much_ , because I’ve always known—’

He inhaled sharply, broken sobs trembling through him. Jean held his hands to each side of Marco’s jaw, thumbs wiping through the tears, his own stinging in his eyes. He leaned his forehead to Marco’s, so close the tips of their noses brushed against each other.

‘I—I let myself hope,’ Marco whispered, hands around Jean’s wrists. ‘It was stupid… and now it hurts… so much…’ He touched Jean’s chin, his lips, before leaning in and pressing his own hard against them. It was desperate, and Jean kissed back just the same, his chest clenching tight, the tears finally falling. He’d missed Marco so many times before, much longer than this, but never did he have to be so close without being able to touch him, hold him, kiss him. And now that Marco let him in again, his heart broke and healed itself within seconds, the process looping over and over, until he couldn’t separate one pain from the other.

‘I love you,’ Marco sobbed against Jean’s neck, hugging him even tighter still. ‘I love you more than anything…’

‘Some day, Marco,’ he whispered back, parting only to take Marco’s face in his hands and hold his gaze. ‘Some day I’ll wear it for you. With you. I promise.’

A tight smile wavered across Marco’s face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His finger brushed over Jean’s knuckles, touching the ring without meaning to. Or maybe it was intentional. A reminder. Not to let himself hope again.

Jean rose from the bed, unwilling to let go of Marco but knowing he had to, only for a short while. ‘I’ll get these clothes off,’ he said, turning away as he undid the buttons of the vest.

Marco’s hand caught his wrist, stopping him, and when Jean looked up, he found Marco’s eyes drinking in the sight of him. ‘Can I help?’ he asked, his hand moving from Jean’s to the shirt visible through the partly opened vest, then further to the skin beneath. His touch vibrated, not with strong magic as other times, but by the feel of his fingers alone. Jean’s breath staggered in his throat, and he smiled, despite everything.

Last of all Jean removed the ring, placing it on the table by the clothes, before returning to the bed where Marco was already waiting.

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ Marco whispered as they settled, blankets and furs pulled up tightly around them to shut out the chill of the late hours.

‘Tonight I do,’ Jean replied, his voice hushed against Marco’s cheek before he kissed him. He found Marco’s hand beneath the covers, lacing their fingers tight with no piece of intrusive metal coming between them this time.

They fell asleep wrapped around each other, doing the best they could to forget the past day, and the future awaiting in the morning. The point of no return had passed long ago. But now, with this marriage to bind them together, to show exactly where Trost was standing, there was truly no road on which to back away.

The thoughts came slithering despite the warmth and safety of Marco’s embrace; through drowsy eyes Jean watched Marco sleep, the crease between his brows not quite vanishing even in unconsciousness. And he knew that whatever kind of peace it was they’d been living in, tonight marked the date when it ended, and war took its place.

* * *

The snow continued to melt away the following weeks, but blooming spring was slow to arrive as usual. The ground lay brown and yellow with the old grass, and the trees stood with naked branches as long as the air was too cold for any buds to open up into fresh new leaves.

The river flowed to their left, calm on the surface but hiding the turmoil of currents beneath. Much like this facade of calm lying over them now, while every city in the land prepared itself for war. Listening to Jean’s talk about the doings in the castle and what nobles had joined them, Marco glanced back towards Petra and Auruo. He was glad they were there, even if it meant he wasn’t truly alone with Jean. But the guards gave them enough privacy for stolen kisses behind the tree trunks, and for now that had to be enough. Especially out here; as much as he craved for them to be closer, he wouldn’t pay for it by risking Jean’s safety. No battle had come this far north yet, but there was no doubt the king had learned about the treason long before the wedding, and was prepared for it. It was only a matter of time.

Marco focused back on Jean, listening to his account of all the names Marco didn’t recognise. He wasn’t really in contact with them though, so as for now it didn’t really matter. But Jean’s voice was soothing, his calm affecting the nervous twirl in Marco’s stomach, and it made Marco so proud to hear how well Jean was handling his new position.

If was different from time to time, of course; some days all Jean wanted was to hide away, asking Marco to ramble about magic and herbs while he held him close and shut out all the rest of the world. But today was all right. Today was good. And Jean’s smile was wide, dimples deepening as he looked over to meet Marco’s eyes; the sun filtered through the tree branches and gleamed in the gold of his irises as he tugged Marco closer by their joined hands to get a kiss.

Marco fought to remember that calm when it was snatched away; searched his memory for Jean’s smiles and soft eyes when his expression froze in an empty mask above the fear. It was not easy. Not when everywhere he turned more injured bodies lay waiting and screaming for help, some far beyond it by this point.

And not all of them even welcomed assistance when it came. At least not in the form Marco offered; harsh words and disgusted curses were thrown at him as much as gratitude, if not more. Even some of those who let him heal them had no gratitude to give, only scowls and wrinkled noses.

‘I will not be touched by a filthy witch!’ one lord barked, even where he lay with a broken spear stuck in his chest, close to his heart.

‘With all due respect, my lord,’ Marco responded, hands already on the wood, ‘but if you don’t let us help you I fear you will die.’

They wanted to appear brave, holding on to their principles and believes even in death if that’s what it took. But none were really ready to give up; the war was only beginning, and their loyalty was strong. Marco only hoped they wouldn’t continue this fussing all through it.

The master healer at Marco’s side was the one to close the deep wound. Such fatal injuries needed skill to be healed properly, and while assisting her by stopping the blood, Marco paid close attention to what she was telling him. In a way it felt wrong to be so curious in such a dire situation as this, but he reasoned that learning more was the best way he could help with all the future days like this one.

By the time the leading generals returned past the hallway Marco was positioned in, the other healer had left to help someone else, letting Marco finish the patching up. Marco was halfway up on his feet before he was pushed back down by Hanji. ‘He’s unharmed,’ they said to him as they moved around the injured lord to his other side, their voice partly hid by the lords grumbling complaint about the treatment. ‘And you’re needed here.’

Marco’s eyes still searched their way back to Jean, noting the tenseness in his posture, his hollow, clenched expression. His nod towards the nobles and captains gathered around him was curt before he left, never finding Marco’s gaze in return. Marco frowned after him for a short moment before he forced his focus back to the patient he was meant to help. Jean might be physically unharmed, but the mask over his face didn’t fool him. He knew something was wrong, and the thought ate away at his insides while he worked.

Later that evening, he found Hanji standing between two pillars in the archway, facing the grand hall. It had been clean and shining when they arrived, before the neighbouring city that had promised to stand with the true queen stabbed them in the back.

‘This is how it will be now, isn’t it?’ he asked, gaze taking in the field of harmed soldiers spreading out between them and the opposite hallway. Hanji only hummed. ‘I thought I had seen the worst when we crammed all the dying people into the ruins of those houses during the epidemic. But I was wrong. And it will only get worse from here.’

Hanji stood quiet, arms crossed over their chest and expression distant in thought, the familiar, inappropriate smile curving the corners of their lips. Then something shook them out of their thoughts, and they turned to Marco. ‘You should go take care of your prince now,’ they said, the smile gone. ‘He needs you.’

Marco didn’t linger. He’d wanted to leave as soon as Jean came back, but he knew Hanji was right to keep him with the injured. Now that he was allowed to he didn’t wait a moment longer.

He found Jean in the guest chamber he’d been given, seated on the edge of the bed in the dark. He wore new, clean clothes, but still rubbed at his skin roughly, struggling to keep calm as the blood stains refused to go away. Marco walked closer, watching with a frown. He’d had enough blood on his hands to know how it stuck to his skin, in creases and around nails. But as he stood before him, still without Jean having heard him, he saw that Jean’s hands were as white as the rest of his skin. There was no blood. Not a trace.

A pang of grief stabbed into Marco’s chest. ‘Hey, hey love. Jean.’ He gently separated Jean’s hands from each other by placing his own between them. ‘It’s all right.’

‘She's dead,’ Jean said, voice empty. ‘One moment she was alive, breathing, existing with thoughts and feelings and memories, and the next…’ Red-rimmed eyes met Marco’s, tears pooling in the corners. ‘I did that. I ended it. I stopped someone from existing.’

Marco didn’t say anything. What was there to say that would change this? Instead he pressed his lips into a tight line, watching Jean as his unseeing eyes searched through the memories yet again. Over and over. When the tears finally fell, Marco wiped them away with the pad of his thumb, but it wasn’t enough. Jean clawed at his hands again, his breathing fast and shivering as he fought and failed to keep calm. It was frozen into his skin, hands so cold with the murder they’d committed it could never melt away.

He refused be held in this position, so Marco moved around him, placing himself like an embrace of support against Jean’s back, one arm steady around his waist and the other returned to hold his hands apart. Jean leaned back against him, but it was tense and panicky, his shoulders shaking.

Marco was glad he hadn’t known about the attack beforehand; he would have worried sick until he was sure that Jean was unharmed. _You should get used to worrying_ , a voice reminded him from the back of his head. Marco closed his eyes with a heavy feeling in his chest and tilted his head to rest his cheek against Jean’s neck. _This is not a time to be selfish,_  he reminded himself. But it was hard to cling to those words when Jean’s body trembled with each suppressed sob. When his cheeks were blank with tears, eyes seeing what was no longer there. His tense fingers biting into Marco’s hand between his own, unintentionally sharp.

‘I can’t do this.’ Jean’s voice was small, hushed, a weakness whispered for no one to hear. ‘I—I can’t…’

They’d had this conversation before, but now it was different. Marco still believed in him, still knew Jean could do so much more than he thought himself. But everything came with a prize, and Marco wondered if _unharmed_ really was the correct way to describe what state the first battle had left Jean in.

He knew the answer.

And he knew that this sort of wound was something his hands could not heal.


End file.
